Scourgify
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: Umbridge,with the help of Malfoy,finally gets to use her Permission for Whipping on Ron.Harry blows up,Hermione helps,Ginny does her bit,and the twins and the DA get a cameo.Hurt comfort.Trio friendship.Rated for violence.
1. Chapter 1

It had started out as such a pleasant day. Well, as pleasant as a day _could_ be with Umbridge still in charge. The sun had shone brightly on the grounds; Peeves, while floating outside the boys' dormitory, had seen Seamus using a Manly Moustache Masque from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes ("Late Bloomer? Let us take care of it! Enjoy a rugged appearance and attract female attention! Only two Sickles!"), and now followed him everywhere, endlessly singing, "There was a young man called Seamus Finnegan/Who grew whiskers on his chinnegan/The wind came out and blew them in again/Poor old Seamus Finnegan/Begin again" to everyone's amusement, Seamus excepted.

And now it was dinnertime, and Umbridge was announcing that before the day was out, she would be whipping a student. The day had definitely taken a turn for the worse.

Looking back on the incident, the trio would later agree that it had started during Potions – specifically, that business with the Scold's Scald potion.

"Typical medieval prejudice," Hermione had called it, and for once, everyone had to agree. The potion was a nasty, painful little brew that was harmless to males, but would cause scalding blisters to erupt all over the tongue and inner mouth of a female 'guilty' of being a 'scold' whenever she tried to give orders or nag, as Snape seemed to delight in explaining, his eyes lingering on Neville, who had gone deathly white. "The effects are described in _An Antiquarie of Potiones _as being 'effective every time the scold gives utterance in a tone or manner unsuited to her faire and gentle nature; thereupon the mouth shews effects similar to a draft of boiling water, causing the scold to cease forthwith her nagging, and weep in exceeding pain'," Snape read aloud. "It's ideal for teaching you dunderheads the importance of accuracy, as it requires perfect timing. Begin."

" 'Faire and gentle nature' my foot!" Hermione muttered angrily. As they slaved over their cauldrons, chopping and dicing, Ron and Harry listened with about half an ear as Hermione ranted on about how in the thirteenth century, a 'scold' was a catch-all term for a woman who showed any type of assertiveness whatsoever towards her menfolk – responding in anger, or indeed in any tone except sweetness and light; presuming to know better than they did; giving instructions; and of course, nagging and scolding. The theory behind it was that once a woman had suffered the effects, she would experience what in modern times was known as aversion therapy. "You can imagine," Hermione muttered _sotto voce _to Harry and Ron, toiling over their cauldrons of murky brown liquid, "how you'd feel about standing up for yourself if you got burns in your mouth every time you tried." She stirred her own brilliantly red potion savagely.

"But when it wears off-" Harry started.

Hermione huffed in exasperation, but surprisingly, Ron beat her to it. "It doesn't wear off, Harry."

Harry looked at them, alarmed. "What? Potions don't last for ever, do they?"

"Well, not for ever," Ron qualified, "but the old recipes aren't like modern potions. Lots of medieval potions' effects last for twenty or thirty years."

Hermione nodded assent. "And since life spans in the Middle Ages weren't that long anyway, that's probably the origin of the notion that they never wear off. Anyway, to be afflicted with a torture potion for thirty years is…" Most uncharacteristically, she seemed at a loss for words.

"I'm surprised he's even allowed to teach medieval potions; anything that lasts that long is borderline Dark Magic," Ron said harshly. His potion seemed to have gelled – had he added too much salamander tongue, he thought? - and he was straining to drag his stirring spoon through the viscous substance. A drop of sweat from his brow fell into his cauldron, and the potion turned an even darker brown. "Not that we've got anything to worry about with this one – might be good for a mud pack, but not much else, I don't think…"

Harry felt laughter bubble up inside him, and hid his grin. He wiped the sweat off his own brow, but even without that precaution, his potion, while marginally runnier than Ron's, was nowhere near the colour it ought to be. He glanced around the class; this was an exceptionally fiddly potion, and nobody except Hermione seemed to have produced the required result, which was roughly the colour and texture of tomato soup.

"Time," called Snape, and there was a resigned dousing of flames, incanting of Cooling Charms, and dropping of ladles, sticks and knives across the room. Harry interestedly noted that no-one, not even the Slytherins, seemed too upset that the potions hadn't turned out right this time. Some of the more assertive girls, like Millicent Bulstrode, seemed positively relieved. He felt a nameless unease, but couldn't pin it down.

"Hmm. Unacceptable," Snape said at the nearest cauldron, and then he was off, striding across the room, making disparaging comments. He passed over the Slytherins without being too scathing, but his withering "You're supposed to silence your wife, not poison her, Longbottom" opened the floodgates to an avalanche of Gryffindor-abuse. Ron's potion elicited an "If I had wanted a cauldronful of mud, Weasley, I would have called for a house-elf. Not that there's much difference," and Harry's an "It's a sorry state of affairs when the so-called hope for the Wizarding world is this useless."

Harry felt the hot rage boil up inside him, but thought, _Hermione's potion will be one in the eye for him_, just as Snape drew level with her cauldron. He made a noncommittal noise in his throat as he ladled the potion thoughtfully, pouring it into the cauldron and ladling it out again, as though testing its consistency. Finally he mrumured, "This may be a passable effort."

Hermione beamed. "Thank you, Professor."

His eyes turned on her, and any approval was gone. "Did I give you permission to speak?"

"N-no, Professor-"

"You talk entirely too much."

"I was just-"

"Enough!" Snape's eyes had never left her face. "I was saying," he whispered, "that this might be a passable Scold's Scald." He paused for effect, and the classroom had gone deathly quiet. "There is, however, only one way to find out." Snape straightened up and looked around the classroom. "Any volunteers?"

You could have heard a pin drop.

Harry heard the rasp of Ron's sudden, shaky breath just before Snape turned back to Hermione and said, "Well, as there is no other volunteer, and since it is _your_ potion, Miss Granger…"

It clicked in his head, the reason for Ron's gasp, and time seemed to _stop_ for a moment—

Hermione's mouth fell open—

Snape's ladle was descending into the potion—

his eyes had the look of a challenge, daring her to contradict him—

Hermione had the look in her eyes of a bird transfixed by a snake—

_thirty_ _years_—

—and he was stunned, frozen, part of him hoping that Snape wasn't mad enough to want to sentence Hermione to that. His thoughts blurred into a jumble, he-had-to-be-bluffing-Umbridge-might-be-headmistress-but-she-surely-wouldn't-allow-it-Dumbledore-wouldn't-allow-it-HE-wouldn't-allow-it-in-another-second-he-would-hit-Snape-and—

"Whoops!" Ron slipped theatrically on the floor and went crashing into Hermione's cauldron, his palms solidly impacting its side. It went flying off the table, dousing Malfoy and Crabbe in scarlet potion before it crashed to the floor.

"I'll get you for that, Weasel!" Malfoy shouted, trying to wipe himself off, pointing his wand at Ron. Ron, still on the floor, rolled under his desk and muttered, "_Evanesco_," making the last of the dangerous liquid disappear. Malfoy bent to get a better aim, but Ron fired off a quick "_Expelliarmus_" and pocketed Malfoy's wand.

"Give that here, blood-traitor or I swear I'll…" Malfoy hissed, livid with rage and humiliation.

"You'll what? Squeak? Not such a cocky little pureblood ferret now, are you?"

Malfoy growled and launched himself bodily at Ron, burrowing his hand into Ron's pocket to get at his wand.

"Oi!" Ron yelled. The contents of his pocket came tumbling out and Harry was rather stunned at its seemingly bottomless capacity: a bag of Cockroach Creams, another of Every Flavour Beans, a squashed sweet wrapper, a broken quill, one of Ginny's hair things, a vial of something from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, a bottle of ink, any number of quill shavings, Ron's wand, Malfoy's wand, a lucky blue scarab, the discarded lace from his fourth year robes… _Doesn't he throw anything away?_

"Ooh, what's this then?" Malfoy's sharp eyes catalogued Ron's things and his hand grabbed for the hair thing. "Never would have thought it of you, Weasley. Do you wear it for Potter when he buggers you or…" But Ron, with his longer reach, had already grabbed the fallen cauldron and plonked it upside-down onto Draco's head before the Slytherin could react. "Gahh!"

"Would have thought you'd be more into that kind of thing, Malfoy, with your hair and all," Ron gathered up his things with dignity as the remainder of the Scold's Scald slipped down Malfoy's sopping robes, while the spluttering noises coming from inside the cauldron as he tried to extricate himself would have been quite enough to convince a casual observer that the cauldron was still boiling. "Here, you can have it." As Malfoy lifted the cauldron off his head, now sopping with red, gooey potion, Ron wrapped the hair thing around his wand and pointed it at Malfoy. "_Pilivestus_!" The lacy elastic immediately lifted Malfoy's hair onto his head in what would have been a rather fetching ponytail if it hadn't bee so thoroughly sopping with potion. The Gryffindors roared with laughter, and a few of the Slytherins looked rather amused, though they wiped the smile off their faces at Draco's glare.

"_That-is-quite-enough_," Snape's voice cut through the fracas like a steel blade. "I will not have brawling in my classroom! Ten points from Gryffindor!"

Ron rose in a fury. "But he started it!"

"Five more points from Gryffindor for arguing with a teacher then," Snape turned on Ron, "and five more for your clumsiness, Mr. Weasley. Mr. Malfoy, go and make yourself presentable. Dismissed." He turned to Hermione with an unreadable expression. "Unfortunately, you will be getting a zero for your effort, Miss Granger, as it has been regrettably lost."

For once in her life, Hermione didn't argue.

* * *

The students poured out into the corridor. "That disgusting, slimy _git_!" Ron fumed. "That bastard! I can't believe what he was trying to do!" 

"I'm sure he didn't mean to actually go through with it," Hermione said faintly. She was almost swaying as she walked.

Harry put out a hand to steady her as Ron burst out, "What would it have taken to convince you? Wait till he poured the potion down your throat? Just because he's a teacher doesn't mean you should defend…"

"Oh, drop it, you two," Harry said firmly. He was shaken himself. Trying to lift his own spirits as well as theirs, he went on, "Good on you, though, the way you got Malfoy with that cauldron..."

Ron grinned. "Building his skills, inne? Amazing bouncing ferret, amazing perambulating cauldron…"

"And that hex with his hair! Where did you learn that?"

"'S not a hex, it's a household spell. Watched Mum do Ginny's hair for years, didn't I?" Ron turned to the still-shocked Hermione, trying to draw her out. "_You_ know what it is, right?"

The subject of Ron's conversation stood before him in the hallway. "Watch out, Weasley," Malfoy hissed. "I'm going to get you for that." He had removed the hair scrunchie and cleaned off the potion, and his expression was murderous.

"What, going to call in the Cauldron Corps?"

"Be dead useful repelling a hex, that – a cauldron helmet."

"Keep your hair on."

"Yeah, don't try any hair-brained schemes…" Harry and Ron had to lean against each other, they were laughing so hard.

Malfoy seemed to be turning scarlet. "You'll pay for humiliating me to defend that Mudblood," he said through tight lips. "That potion would have shut her up permanently, and a good thing too."

"I'll clock you one again with that bloody cauldron if you don't shut up-"

"Ron, it's not worth it-" Hermione began, and both boys turned to her, concerned at how shaken her voice still sounded.

"Trying to score points with your little girlfriend, Muggle-lover?"

"Shut it, Malfoy," Harry snapped, patience wearing thin. He whipped out his wand.

"Oh, I will," Malfoy smirked. "There's more than one way to skin a cat – you'd know that saying, it being a Muggle proverb and all, wouldn't you, Weasley?" And, with another very unnerving confident smirk, he had sauntered off.

"He's bluffing," Hermione had said in a shaky voice. "Come on, we don't want to be late for Charms." They had headed off to their next class, and they had all thought that was the end of the matter.

If only it had been.


	2. Chapter 2

They had never thought that Malfoy might have been behind it, not even when Umbridge announced at dinner, "Thanks to my Inquisitorial Squad, I have been apprised that a student at Hogwarts is in possession of a deadly poison."

Iinstead, they, along with all the other students, had been shocked. The Great Hall was abuzz with whispers. Ron looked at Harry. "A poison! Who'd you reckon it is?"

"Probably Malfoy," Harry began, but Hermione shushed them as Umbridge went on.

"For an adult wizard, the consequences of this would be a trial and a sentence in Azkaban, but," she practically purred, unfurling a scroll where the inscription "Permission for Whipping" could just be made out, "an underage wizard or witch will be placed at the disposal of the Hogwarts High Inquisitor. I have decided to give the culprit a choice between expulsion or a flogging. "

A murmur rippled through the Great Hall. A lot of people hadn't been too clear on what had finally driven Fred and George to fly off into the sunset. Corporal punishment was unknown to most of the students; they had never dreamed it even existed in the rule-books at all. But, as Hermione grimly quoted out of _Corporal Punishment in the Wizarding World in Modern Times_, the punishment was still enforceable in Wizarding schools, at least in theory, at the discretion of the Headmaster. Or Headmistress.

"Given a _choice_?" Harry fumed as they rose from dinner. "It's got to be Malfoy, that's why she's giving them the choice. He should just join the Junior Death Eaters or something and save us all a lot of trouble. His dad's already working for Voldemort, and…" Ron flinched and Hermione grimaced; Harry ignored them, garnering some pitying looks from non-DA members. However, his speculations were cut off as he had to go to his Occlumency lesson with Snape. They agreed to meet at Hagrid's hut later to ask him if he'd seen anything about the mysterious poison.

Hermione and Ron had just taken leave of Harry and were on their way up to their Tower when they rounded a corner to find Malfoy's Inquisitorial Squad posse blocking the corridor. The two Gryffindors exchanged glances as Malfoy said, "Got you, Weasley."

"What are you talking about? Get your trained monkeys out of the way," Ron sneered. Crabbe and Goyle, whose bulk was doing most of the blocking, gave no indication of having heard the insult. Malfoy's expression never wavered from the unnerving smile he'd worn that morning.

"Oh, I don't think so, Weasel."

Ron drew his wand. "Sod off, Malfoy."

"Ron, don't," Hermione entreated, trying to calm him down.

"I've got your Weasel now, Mudblood." The Inquisitorial Squad smirked at their leader's taunt. Pansy giggled. Hermione looked as if she wanted to ask what he meant, but resolutely kept silent.

The words had barely left Malfoy's mouth when Umbridge, closely followed by Argus Filch, stepped out from behind him. "_Expelliarmus_!" she commanded and Ron's wand flew into her hand. "Go ahead, Mr. Malfoy."

"Ronald _Bilius_ Weasley," Malfoy smirked, "funny name, that – parents couldn't afford a better one, could they – strangely appropriate, though…" At Umbridge's '_hem, hem_' he seemed to catch himself and went on, "you're under arrest for possession of a deadly poison…"

But the rest of his words were drowned out by Ron and Hermione's shouts.

"_What?_"

"You're mad! Ron would never…"

"Poison? I'd just like to see you prove it, you dirty lying…"

Malfoy smirked. "Permission to prove it, Headmistress?"

"Permission granted, Mr. Malfoy," Umbridge said sweetly.

"_Accio_ Weasley's contraband!" Malfoy said sharply, flinging out a hand. Hermione looked smugly at Malfoy, then turned pale as, a moment later, a small vial flew out of Ron's pocket and into his outstretched palm.

"That's no poison, you slimy git! Give it here!" Ron yelled. He surged forward, but Crabbe and Goyle restrained him. Hermione looked at him, agonized, as Malfoy passed the vial to the Headmistress, who looked it over severely.

"Patented Prufrock Potion," she read. "Product of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Notorious troublemakers, branched out into poison-making, have they? Well, I think we have the proof we need…"

"My brothers aren't poisoners, you lying cow!" Ron yelled. "It's just supposed to make you spout doggerel all over the place! I thought it'd be good for a laugh later… rent a Pensieve and…"

"So you find poisoning people a laughing matter, Mr Weasley?" Umbridge said sweetly.

"I was just going to test it for them!" he shouted. Hermione moaned and looked down at the floor. How many times had she told them not to test their potions at Hogwarts? "D'you seriously think my own brothers would poison me?" Ron yelled, struggling against the Inquisitors' grip.

"Your excuses will get you nowhere," Umbridge said. "The question now is, will you choose expulsion, or a flogging?"

"I'm not bloody well choosing anything!" Ron stormed. "Get that potion analysed. It's not a poison! Your dirty trick won't work! Malfoy can just get stuffed…"

"Whoops-a-daisy," Umbridge giggled girlishly as the glass vial slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor. The obviously volatile potion evaporated in an iridescent mauve haze as they watched, blowing away on the slight breeze from the window. "What a pity, I seem to have broken the evidence. _Hem, hem._ But," she turned to the Inquisitorial Squad, "you can vouch for the fact that Weasley was found to be in possession of a flask of poison, can't you?"

"Of course, Professor," Malfoy smiled smugly, and the members of the Inquisitorial Squad who actually had higher thought processes nodded. Crabbe and Goyle just looked at one another. "Nod your heads, you fools!" Malfoy hissed, and they nodded slowly as well.

Hermione gasped. "You can't do this!"

"You forget yourself, Miss Know-It-All," Umbridge said coldly. She turned to Ron. "So, what will it be, Mr. Weasley?"

"I _won't!_ Your lies won't stand up! You can't prove it was poison!"

"Hmm," Umbridge mused thoughtfully, as though to herself, but her voice was pitched to carry. There was an edge to it that made the hair on the back of Hermione's neck prickle. "Perhaps you are right. You are underage; the _true_ perpetrators of this crime, whose names you have confessed, are not. I have witnesses, you know. If you deny any knowledge of this poison, I can always contact the Ministry…"

"No…" Hermione froze as she realized what Umbridge meant, although Ron obviously didn't yet.

"…and have those troublemaking twins arrested. We can arrange for them to stay in Azkaban for a month or two until we get the trial underway, and then…"

"NO!" Ron roared so loudly that Crabbe and Goyle flinched, and almost let go of him. "Leave Fred and George out of it! They haven't done anything! You can't have them sent to Azkaban!"

"Can't I just." The Ministry representative, High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, fixed Ron with a steely glare.

"You leave my brothers alone," Ron said dangerously. "They've left school, they've given up their NEWTs, what more do you want? Just _leave-them-alone_."

Malfoy sniggered.

"I don't take orders from students, Mr Weasley, as well you know," Umbridge said smoothly. "However, if this poison was manufactured and possessed by you alone, then obviously there can be no reason to bring anyone else into it."

"Oh, she's good. Don't you think so, Mudblood?" Malfoy whispered. Hermione shot him a look that made him gulp and shut up.

But Ron hesitated, unwilling to actually say the damning lie, until Umbridge spoke again. "On second thought, maybe it would be better if you didn't confess. Those troublemaking twins would be well served by a few months in Azkaban. It would wipe the smile right off their arrogant faces…"

"_No_!" Ron's face filled with a raw fear Hermione had only seen once before, when Harry was in the air fighting the Hungarian Horntail.

"Those two certainly deserve to rot in prison for a bit, don't they, Weasel?" Malfoy taunted. "Who knows, a Dementor might Kiss them and then your family would have two fewer mouths to feed, wouldn't they?"

Ron slumped, resigned bitterness in his eyes, and Hermione knew it was over. "All right, all _right_!" Ron gritted his teeth. "Fred and George had nothing to do with this. I did it."

Umbridge beamed. "If you could be a little more precise, Mr Weasley."

"I – I made the p—poison," Ron grated out. "I made it and kept it."

"For what purpose?" the Headmistress asked silkily.

For a moment Ron just looked at her in disbelief, then a sardonic smile crept across his features. "Um, I – just thought it might come in handy for a spot of cold-blooded murder," he said airily, warming to his false confession. "Be prepared and all that, you know—"

"That is quite enough," Umbridge snapped. "Now we come to your choice. Will you take expulsion, or a flogging with the cat?"

Ron looked blank, and Hermione knew that he had never heard the term before. In fact, a few of the Slytherins were wearing blank looks as well. She could almost see him picturing Crookshanks and Mrs Norris. She opened her mouth, haltingly, to explain, but Umbridge motioned to Filch, who pulled out of his robes a heavy leather whip, as thick as a man's finger, straight out of a pirate film.

Hermione whimpered. Ron blanched. Some of the Slytherins paled a bit, but Malfoy just smirked. "Told you there was more than one way to skin a cat, didn't I, Weasley?" he gloated. "Pity you weren't paying attention…"

"Shut _up_!" Hermione hissed, beside herself.

"So, now you know what the cat is – truly, you young students pay no attention at all in Muggle Studies – tell us your choice. Expulsion, or a flogging?"

Hermione's heart pounded as Ron, chalk-white, stared rigidly ahead. She pictured Mrs. Weasley hearing the news of Ron's expulsion from Hogwarts, and shuddered. What happened to witchards who never finished Hogwarts, anyway? Conductors on the Night Bus like Stan Shunpike? Something 'working-class', in Muggle terms? Hermione was stunned to find, as she delved into her memory for an answer, that nothing she had read about the Wizarding World had prepared her to answer that question.

Through the thundering of her heart, she could barely make out Ron's voice as he said, "I'll take the flogging," and suddenly, she knew that there had really only ever been one answer.

She stood there like a statue, tears pouring down her cheeks. By the time she managed to pull herself together, Umbridge had already dismissed the grumbling Inquisitorial Squad and handed him over to Filch's strong grip. Hermione could see the High Inquisitor's eyes glittering. By the looks of it, she could hardly wait to use the lash. She had to _do_ something! "Please, Professor Umbridge," she tried, "Ron wouldn't hurt a fly! Can't you – give him detention, or – or…" she had been going to say "give him lines," but stumbled over her words, not wanting to give away her knowledge of what happened to Harry in his detentions. "Oh, please, Professor," she sobbed, not caring how she sounded, "you can't whip him! Corporal punishment's been unknown in Hogwarts for a century…"

"Quiet," Umbridge said. "I'm being very lenient, girl. You should be glad this is only coming to a flogging. The charge is, after all, murder."

"Murder!" Hermione's voice rose in pitch. "Ron would never kill anyone! Professor Umbridge, you can't possibly think that! If Professor Dumbledore was here, he'd tell you so, you can Floo him and ask if you—"

But Umbridge's satisfied voice sliced through her tirade. "You of all people, Miss Know-It-All, should be aware that as Headmistress, I have the power to alert the proper authorities and have him sent to Azkaban. You should be grateful." She whipped out her wand so fast it was a blur. "_Imperio!_"

"Hermione!"

Hermione was taken completely by surprise. She remembered very little after that – Umbridge seemed to have forced her to thank her for Ron's punishment. By the time she snapped out of it, memory coming back in bits and pieces, she found herself standing before the locked dungeon door, and Ron was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Ron had been to his family vault at Gringotts' before. Not very often, admittedly, but he'd been in the bowels of the earth enough times to know what it felt like. When you got very, very deep underground, the very air seemed dank, the coldness penetrating, in a way that told you clearly that a man could die before seeing sunlight and fresh air again. And this same knowledge told him that he had never been this deep inside the dungeons before.

He swallowed, trying to control the icy tendrils of fear that seemed to curl along his nerve endings and send chills through him with every step. There was something about the dungeons that boded ill; more prosaically, he was sure they were full of spiders._ I'm a Gryffindor, I'm a Gryffindor,_ he kept telling himself.

He chilled at the thought of that whip and decided he had never felt less like one.

Their footsteps echoed around the stone walls as they walked. Umbridge had a tight grip on his arm and was pulling him down a dank corridor. There was some version of an Impediment jinx on him, he thought, because he couldn't move his limbs normally. "So, Mr. Weasley." Umbridge seemed to be relishing manhandling him, a part of his brain noted. "Who was it meant for?" He didn't consider this worthy of an answer, and after a moment, she began speculating. "Probably one of the Inquisitorial Squad, on the orders of that lying, useless Potter boy, to get your share of the glory."

He blazed with indignance. "Harry's not a liar. Or useless. Shut your mouth." The words shot out before he could stop them, and he gave himself a hearty mental kick as soon as he'd said them. _How stupid am I?_ he thought.

A push to his back sent him sprawling. Unable to protect himself with his hands, he landed awkwardly on his chest, chin cracking against the stone floor. "Well, well. So the little sycophant can answer back. I was beginning to wonder." At a wave of her ring-adorned hand, Filch hauled him up by the hair. "If I were you, I wouldn't add to my punishment. Extra strokes for that little display of insolence, Mr. Filch?"

"Oh _yes_, Headmistress."

Umbridge's breath was hot in his face. She was so close, he could see a glint in her eye he couldn't quite place. Some hormone-driven part of him recognized the glint, though, and Ron felt sick._ She's – can she be getting off on this? _he thought as Filch pushed him forward again.

After what felt like miles, Umbridge stopped before a pitted, scarred oak door. The top of it faded away into the blackness. Filch slipped a tarnished silver key into the hole. As he turned it, a tiny spider scuttled indignantly out of the keyhole, and Ron's stomach turned over. _Gryffindor, Gryffindor,_ he thought hurriedly. He cast about for a way to distract himself. _Animagus, _he thought hurriedly._ The spider's an Animagus of – er – Cawdor McDuff of the Merseyside Martins, here to scout out new Quidditch talent, and—_

But his flights of fancy ground to a halt and he took a step back involuntarily as the door swung open to reveal featureless, inky blackness. Filch stepped in. His flickering torch sent dark shadows leaping up the walls of what turned out to be a high-ceilinged, windowless dungeon, the huge grey stones of its walls filmed with glistening green dampness.

A hand in the small of his back shoved him violently forward. In his jinxed state, Ron stumbled and fell to the floor again. _Ah, no, not the bloody chin again, not the—_ was all he managed to think before his chin hit the floor again. This time he saw stars, and tasted blood inside his mouth._ Ow. There goes the Most Eligible Wizard of the Year picture on the cover of _Witch Weekly Ron grinned as the wry thought came to him. Maybe he could get over this by cracking jokes. He doubted it – fear was a cold lump in his stomach – still and all, it was best to keep one's chin up – _bad choice of words_, he thought as his chin throbbed.

He felt the jinx being lifted. "Strip to the waist," Umbridge ordered.

"Little striptease, then? Right-o." Astounded at his own daring, he swiveled his shoulders from side to side, shrugging off his robe, first one shoulder, then the other, waggling his eyebrows in a parody of a stripper's erotic expression. His hands shaking spoiled the effect a bit, but seeing Umbridge and Filch standing still as statues, mouths hanging open, he went at it, bumping and grinding as he slipped off his jumper, batting his eyelashes as he shed his shirt and vest. He finished off with a flourish and took a sloppy bow. "Anything for a pretty bird like you." One of his Dad's Muggle sayings crossed his mind – "Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a horse." Or something.

Umbridge was smiling. For some reason this did not bode well. "Think you're amusing, Mr. Weasley?" she said, her voice confident and girlish once more.

Ron began to feel a surreal quality to the scene._ What would the twins say? _"Well, if I do say so myself—"

"Pulsare!" 

The curse that slammed him into the wall left him breathless.

"_Infirmus!_"

His strength seemed to drain suddenly from him. When Filch grabbed him, he found himself as weak as a little child. He struggled, but the spell had sapped his strength. The scene took on a dreamlike quality as he found himself being manhandled over to a wall that had suspicious stains on the floor beneath it.

The torch flickered in a wall sconce as the caretaker lifted his now-feeble wrists and snapped an iron band onto one, then the other. _Charming, the way there are shackles on the walls. How awfully convenient. Maybe this room used to be a torture chamber. Oh, this is really helping me stay chipper. _Ron closed his eyes and tried concentrating on something else, chess perhaps, or the Cannons' top scores this last season… _I'm a Gryffindor, I'm a Gryffindor_.

Umbridge's voice was gloating. "Not so saucy now, are we, Mr. Weasley?"

Defiantly, he lifted his chin. _Dirty old woman,_ he thought. _I'll be damned if I give her the satisfaction of seeing me crawl. Hermione's done more than enough of that for both of us…_

His blood boiled as he remembered Hermione under Imperius. The older witch had taken Hermione by surprise, and he'd seen her forced to curtsey and say, "Thank you, Professor Umbridge, for punishing my boyfriend." Her face had burned scarlet, and for a moment it hadn't mattered that he was going to be whipped, only that Hermione was under the Imperius Curse.

As they'd led him away, he'd seen her struggling to break out of it. It seemed she'd finally succeeded, as he'd heard her footsteps running after them. But she was too late, and he'd heard the receding sounds of her pounding on the locked dungeon doors and calling out. In a way he was glad she was locked out. He didn't want to see what other Unforgivables Umbridge might use on her if she chose. Harry would buck her up when he got back from Snape's office…

As Filch swished the 'cat' through the air, he found Harry a strong presence in his thoughts; their laughs in Divination, the excitement of Quidditch, the way everything was just more fun when he was around. If Harry was here, he'd take it without flinching. Surely he could do as well as his best mate.

Over his shoulder, he saw Umbridge point her wand at his back. "_Finite Incantatem_. That's just so you don't enjoy the protection of a Numbing Charm or anything, Mr. Weasley."

Power seemed to surge down his limbs with the swelling of his returning strength. Fat lot of good it did him, though, now he was shackled with hoops of iron.

"Though now that the Potter boy has found out what you are, and refused to have anything further to do with you…"

_What? Harry would never do that!_ "That's a dirty lie!"

Her smile didn't waver. "I wouldn't be insolent if I were in your position," she simpered, "but you'll find out soon enough. It's all over the school. He has become convinced that you have turned to the Dark side as his father's friend did so long ago, and has renounced your friendship."

The world spun. The words seemed to echo in his head: "renounced your friendship…renounced your friendship… renounced your friendship…" _How does she know about Scabbers?_ the thought popped into his head, and then he realized, _She means Sirius, she still thinks he's a murderer – but if Harry said 'his father's friend', he must have been thinking of Pettigrew. But I'd never turn out like Pettigrew, I'd never betray Harry, never! It isn't true,_ he thought desperately_. Harry would listen to my side of the story – he wouldn't let anyone convince him I'd turned Dark – would he?_

"…so I doubt you'll have any friends left to cast any pain-numbing charms after what you did," Umbridge gave a smile that was almost a leer, "except that homely girl who's so desperate for a boy that she's besotted with you."

Ron snapped out of his daze of misery. "_Don't_ say that about Hermione," he grated, and despite his unenviable position, his voice was dangerous.

"Hit a nerve, have we?" Umbridge turned to Filch, who was positively salivating with excitement. "Right, Mr. Filch. I had been going to say fifty lashes, but this impertinent boy obviously needs a lesson in manners. You may give him a hundred…" Ron's jolt of shock was interrupted by her next words.

"…for a start."

Ron felt sick with dread. But then he set his jaw and vowed to take the punishment on his feet if it killed him.

Crack.

The sound reverberated through the dungeon, unnaturally loud, and Ron heard it a split-second before a scorching pain shot through him. It seemed to go from his head clear down to his toes, and threatened to slash him in two. In a moment, it resolved into a line of fire on his back. If he hadn't been determined to stay silent, the pain would have shocked him into crying out.

"One," Umbridge giggled.

Crack.

The second searing cut of the whip only intensified the pain. How would he take a hundred? He arched backwards involuntarily and he bit his lip, willing himself not to cry out. He _would_ not.

"Two."

Crack.

Ron gasped and clenched his fists at the blow. He wouldn't make a sound. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction. He _wouldn't_. Deep breaths… _that's it, Ron old son…_

"Three."

Writhing in pain, Ron breathed deeply and held on as it continued.

"…Twenty-one. Twenty-two…"

The blistering lashes made him gasp, but he was almost falling into a pattern now. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. He was doing a dance now, his head alternately arching back, then slumping forward, his back and torso straining and gyrating in all directions, as though unwilling to listen to his mind saying that there was no way to dodge the blows.. _Should be good training for my future as a stripper_, he thought, astonished that he could still joke, even to himself. He took that as a good sign.

_Send the twins to Azkaban indeed_, he thought with grim satisfaction, as each vicious lash drove him slightly further out of himself, and the pain receded as he began to lose consciousness._ Over my dead body. It's good to be the one saving people for once, like Harry…_

_Does he really think I've…_His eyes stung, and the pain came rushing back. He was faintly aware that his face was wet with tears, but that was something he couldn't help. And the beating continued, relentless.

"Forty-nine. Fifty. Fifty-one…"


	4. Chapter 4

Out of sight, out of mind was Harry's golden rule for Occlumency with Snape. As soon as he was out of the dungeons, he banished the lessons from his mind in order to dwell on more pleasant prospects. Tonight was Defense Association night, and Harry jogged up to the Room of Requirement; it was just on ten o'clock, and it wouldn't do for him to be late for his own lesson.

The moment he walked into the Room of Requirement, though, he knew something was very wrong.

The DA members weren't standing around chewing the fat waiting for the lesson to begin, as usual, but sitting in a circle on the floor, alternately shouting and gesticulating and listening to a tale being told by an unhappy-looking Hermione. The DA members who weren't red-faced and shouting looked horror-stricken. Tears stood in Hannah Abbott's eyes; Luna Lovegood looked as though she were going to be sick. Ginny Weasley was breathing hard, her freckles standing out against her pale face, but her jaw was set in a firm line. And where was Ron?

Hermione looked up as he walked in. "Harry," she said flatly, as though she had no fight left in her.

Harry had no patience with greetings, not with the DA looking like this. He'd trained these people; it would take quite a blow to reduce them to this state. "What's going on?" he snapped crisply. He looked around the room again. The face he most wanted to see was missing, and he suddenly felt unaccountably nervous. "Ron not here yet?"

A chorus of yells and disgusted exclamations broke out of the DA members at this, and Hermione felt a chill go through her. She'd hoped to put this question off for a few more minutes. She felt sick all over again at what had happened: despite her best efforts, Filch and Umbridge, beaming, had taken him down to the dungeons and left her locked out, calling out futilely and pounding on the magically sealed door.

"Harry," Hermione said, biting her lip, "You're not going to like this…"

And she told him.

The DA members weren't hearing the tale for the first time; Harry, cloistered with Snape, was probably the only one who hadn't heard it. Malfoy, Pansy, Millicent and the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad hadn't wasted a moment in spreading the tale all around the school, complete with the attendant slanders about Ron's malicious, possibly unbalanced, schemes. But on hearing the details of the unjust accusation and subsequent confession under threat, all in payment for a Slytherin's slight, Dumbledore's Army were extremely vocal about their disapproval; it wasn't only Gryffindors who had been abused by Malfoy's Inquisitorial Squad. But if they were incensed, Harry was livid. "_What_!" he exploded. "They can't actually be going to _whip_ him! What _for_! Possession of _what_! It's a _joke_!"

"I know!" Hermione finally exploded. "But Umbridge," she hesitated a second at the hated name, "I – I think she just wanted to punish him, you know, since she can't get at Fred and George now, and Malfoy just gave her the perfect excuse. And it's our word against hers, and the whole of the Inquisitorial Squad. Besides, the Ministry's given her so many powers now, it's like _1984_…"

"What happened in 1984?" asked Susan Bones.

"Muggle thing," Colin Creevey said hurriedly.

"…so she doesn't have to prove anything. What the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts says goes."

"And they're really going to… to _beat_ him?" Parvati gasped dramatically.

Hermione sighed, trying for reassuring. "It used to happen in Muggle schools, you know, until just a couple of years ago," she said, and the Muggle-borns nodded. Harry just rubbed his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. To the wizarding students, she explained, "They used to give 'six of the best' – six strokes on your bottom with a cane. In the Wizarding world, they give it to you with a whip, but the person administering the punishment has a lot of discretion in how many strokes and where on the body. Don't worry, I'm sure they can't punish an underage wizard too badly."

"But… but they're really going to… When's it going to…?" stammered Neville. His round, good-natured face was very white; Harry looked as though he were on the verge of bolting, but didn't know where to go.

"They took him down to the …dungeons right after…dinner," Hermione choked out. As the room erupted into outraged cries and mutinous mutterings, she took a deep breath. When her memory had returned, she recalled all too clearly the Headmistress' vindictive torrent of words while she was under Imperius.

"Well, there's one thing we can do, anyway," Katie Bell announced firmly, "we can try and put a stop to the rubbish Malfoy and his lot are spreading. About Ron being a Dark wizard and so on."

The DA members seemed to swell with righteous indignation. "_Ron Weasley_, in league with _You-Know-Who_?" Alicia Spinnet snorted indignantly. "His whole family're blood-traitors! Who'd believe that rubbish?"

"We can't let people think that," said Neville, and his voice was pitched slightly high, but it rang with strength.

"Well. If anyone can get it sorted, we can," Katie said firmly. She turned to the others. "Right, let's plan a bit of a strategy…"

The DA formed a tight knot, looking for all the world like a council of war. Hermione was overwhelmingly grateful for their support; she had no strength left, and sat on the floor, happy to leave it to them. Glancing sideways, she saw that Harry hadn't joined the group either; he sat on the floor, trying to take it all in. "Harry, shall I tell them the lesson's cancelled for tonight?" she asked gently. When Harry didn't answer her, she dredged up the strength to quietly tell them that due to the circumstances, she would let them know when the next meeting would be. Eventually, the DA marched out, the light of battle in their eyes, complaining loudly about the injustice of it all, and vowing to spread the truth to anyone who would listen, and hex anyone who wouldn't into oblivion.

When the last of them had gone, she found Harry's eyes on her. He looked frozen with shock and indecision – which in itself showed how upset he was. Then the green eyes filled with rage. "I can't believe you didn't _do_ anything!" Harry snapped.

"It's not that easy when you've been Imperiused!" Hermione snapped back, then instantly covered her mouth.

Harry looked at her incredulously.

"_Imperius_ed?"

"Never mind that," Hermione muttered, flushing. "She was too quick. Should've seen it coming."

Harry fell silent, digesting it, feeling awful. His trepidation for Ron increased. If Umbridge could use an Unforgivable on a student… "Sorry I snapped at you," he said to Hermione distractedly.

"It's all right. We're both on edge. I'm sorry I snapped too."

"Who's … punishing him?" Harry's stomach clenched at what his words meant. "Umbridge?"

"Umbridge and Filch." Hermione's voice was flat, lifeless.

_Filch_. Harry's stomach churned as he remembered how the unpleasant caretaker had been positively salivating at the thought of physically punishing a student. He wondered for a moment why Umbridge hadn't made the whipping public. It was more the sort of thing she liked. But then he realized: she'd have had the entire student body up in arms against her, and the incident would likely have incited a riot. Even if they did think Harry was having delusions about Voldemort being back, the students did have some sense; they'd never believe such patent foolishness as Ron actually being with Voldemort or intending to poison anything bigger than a cockroach. _Ron's well-liked,_ he thought; _it's only by association with a 'delusional madman' like myself that he gets into trouble. _He shook the thought off.

"Let's go down to the common room and wait for him," said Hermione. "You can help me make up a bowl of Murtlap essence. He should be coming up any moment now."

Well, that was a relief, or it would be if he could think about anything but Filch hitting Ron. "How long's it been?" Harry asked.

"It… all happened about half an hour after dinner," Hermione frowned in thought. "Must be about… two hours ago now."

Harry matched her expression, his concern boiling over into anger. Just how long did a … flogging… take, anyhow?


	5. Chapter 5

_Crack_.

"A hundred!"

The last lash scorched across Ron's back and Filch lowered the scourge. The Headmistress gave a high-pitched giggle of what sounded like pure delight.

Ron was trembling, shaking all over, and the sweat poured off him. His blistered back was flame. The pain had given way to a kind of trance at some point, but Umbridge had called out "_Enervate!_" and mentioned how it wouldn't do to have him falling asleep for his punishment. He gave a ragged gasp as he tried to control himself. It was over, at least; he held onto that thought.

The iron hoops binding his hands sprang open. Ron's knees gave way, his back throbbing in time with his heart, but he caught himself and grabbed at the wall, dragging himself upright, his fingers digging into the cracks between the ancient stones.

"Defiant, aren't we?" Umbridge simpered.

_I'm a Gryffindor, I'm a Gryffindor. _He pretty much believed it now. That was his one satisfaction. He'd writhed and squirmed; he'd strained against the manacles; he'd bitten through his lip. But he hadn't cried out and he hadn't begged for mercy.

The one thing that threatened to destroy his resolve, more so than the waves of pain, was that his best mate believed he had gone over to the Dark Side.

"Look at me."

When Ron refused to comply, Filch grabbed his shoulder and whirled him round to face the Headmistress. His welts and blisters touched the wall and he winced.

"And now we come to the little matter of your insolence, your downright disgusting behaviour towards a Ministry representative," said Umbridge. "I'm sure you agree that we can't let such a blatant show of disrespect go unpunished, can we, Mr Weasley?"

Ron gritted his teeth and stared at the floor.

"I do believe that this young man has not learnt his lesson yet," the High Inquisitor's voice penetrated his defenses. "Let's see the damage first." Was that anticipation in her voice? "Kneel."

_I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot_, sounded through his head, as he retorted, "At _your_ feet? Not bloody likely. A Veela's maybe, but…"

"_Infirmus! Mobilicorpus!_"

Ron felt himself forced to his knees, and grimaced as his back was bent forward into a crouch, stretching the welts on his skin. Further and further he was forced to bend over, until he rested on all fours and his forehead touched the floor. Umbridge's voice, rasping across the pain's razor edge like a knife, seemed filled with disappointment. "Why, Mr. Filch! You have only _raised_ the flesh, not _broken_ it at all! You cannot have been striking _hard_ enough!"

"'d 've liked to, Headmistress," Filch muttered obsequiously, "but 's not allowed in schools, y'see…" That was all he could make out before his head started spinning.

Umbridge was speaking. The words floated in and out through the sound of his own gasping breaths. "Oh, no… doesn't apply to someone from a family like that… don't want you to be lenient… oh yes, he's perfectly all right…" He struggled to make sense of the monologue. Why didn't they just shut up and go away? "…can take much more, certainly…"

Filch's voice was getting louder and more enthusiastic. "Oh, yes! In my day, Headmistress, whippings …serious business … think twice before they misbehaved!"

"Certainly," Umbridge said. "…serious offense, after all…merits… severe chastisement…"

"Well, in that case…" He heard Umbridge _Accio_ something he couldn't make out.

"Oh, Headmistress! Do you really permit me to use…" Filch's voice seemed delighted, eager, bordering on reverent, the way some Quidditch players sounded when they were talking about an exceptional broom. Something shiny was swinging in front of his face, sweeping across the floor. The motion was hypnotic, but he couldn't work up the interest to care.

"…think the boy's extreme disrespect merits it, Mr Filch."

Filch pulled Ron up by the hair again and this time, he was forced to stare at the hypnotically swinging object.

His insides froze.

The first whip that Filch had used lay discarded on the floor. In its stead, swinging from his hand, was a 'cat' similar to the first, only with several long, supple leather tails. But this one was different. At regular intervals along each strand dangled a tiny, clawlike, curved metal star. The stars' razor-hooked edges flashed in the torchlight. As he watched, Umbridge pointed her wand at the stars, muttering an incantation, and the tiny claws started to open and close their grip rhythmically in the air, blindly seeking prey.

His fear almost made him forget his pain. Dry-mouthed, he stared up in horror.

Umbridge smiled. "Ah, so you're familiar with this? Good. It was invented by an illustrious witch, you know, even though she did choose to live as a Muggle – Catherine the Great. I think twenty-five lashes with this will be sufficient punishment for your disgusting display…"

"You're mental," Ron whispered in terror and disbelief before he could stop himself, then could have bitten his tongue._ Oh brill, Death-Wish Weasley. Dig your own grave and have done with it, why don't y—_

"Now it's fifty, Mr. Weasley. One more word out of you and it will be a hundred. Any questions?"

He barely registered being fastened back to the dungeon wall. His knees were shaking and he was dimly aware that but for the shackles, he would probably have fallen. He was far more frightened than he had been of the earlier whip. His heart pounded, his back throbbed and cold sweat poured off him. _Be strong. Be strong. Be strong. Be—_

Swish. Thud.

The whip whistled through the air. The curved metal hooks buried themselves deep into his back muscles, and stayed there. With a lurch of nausea, he felt the stars sink their hooks into his flesh, burrowing in for a firmer grip. Dirty lightning seemed to crackle through his body, and he gasped.

With a jerk, Filch yanked on the scourge, ripping the stars out of Ron's back; each pulled out a chunk of flesh.

Ron gasped, groaned, and threw up all over himself and the wall.

Through the corner of his eye, in a haze of white-hot pain, he dimly saw Umbridge pull out a pink, lace-edged handkerchief and casually flick away the bloody clots that had flown out into her face. "One. Learning respect for authority now, child?"

Swish. Thud.

Again the metal stars burrowed in, held on, and then tore pieces out of Ron's back. The pain was horrific. He arched back against the manacles and screamed gutturally, like a wild animal.

"Two. Now _that's_ more like it."

"This is how it was in my day! No misbehaviour tolerated then, Headmistress!"

Swish. Thud.

"Three. Four. Five."

As the whip began to tear into already torn and exposed flesh, the stars having ripped away most of the skin and now clutching and tearing muscle and vein and sinew laid bare, Ron screamed and screamed, now unaware of anything but searing, blinding torment. Lightning crackled along his bones with each mutilating stroke. Pride was forgotten as he beat his own head against the stone wall, maddened with pain. Again and again he vomited until there was nothing left, and still he retched, his stomach heaving.

"Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three…"

It was impossible that it should continue, yet it did. The pain was indescribable, beyond endurance. His screaming and flailing had become continuous now. He knew his bones were being flayed; his body knew he was dying. His mind seemed to separate from his body, and the stray thought popped in through the haze of suffering:_ Umbridge probably wouldn't allow that to happen. Might be dodgy, flogging a student to death on school premises. There's got to be a rule against—_

"Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty…"

Oh, Harry. Help me. Hermione, help me. Help me, please. Mum. I don't want to die. Oh, please. Help me. Somebody help me.

The clawing, tearing strokes blended into one another. Repeated Reviving Charms kept him in Hell, far from blissful oblivion, but he was still in a daze when he finally felt himself collapse onto the floor.

Filch must have let him loose. It didn't matter one way or the other, he supposed. He was very cold.

Umbridge said something about the infirmary tomorrow morning. He felt dazed, and nodded without understanding. He was floating off…

"_Enervate_," Umbridge said, and he was jolted into agonizing consciousness, back into his own body, into excruciating pain, as Filch took the torch and slammed the door behind him.

Ron supposed he should have been afraid of the dark, but the sickening pain left no room for any other thought. His entire torso was filthy flame, the kind where you feel the ugly, unclean damage in your bones. His arms were numb with the cold, but for the life of him he couldn't move to try and put on his cloak; he couldn't feel his legs at all. He felt convulsive shudders go through him, and tried to make his teeth stop chattering.

Death would probably be a relief, but he didn't want to die alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry was fretting. "He's not back yet."

"_That_ much is obvious, Harry," Hermione snapped, then immediately relented. "Sorry."

"How long does it take, anyway?" Harry muttered.

Hermione had no answer.

The twosome sat on the Common Room sofa. The rest of the Gryffindors had slowly trickled off to bed, leaving them waiting with a basin of essence of Murtlap tentacles for a Ron who never came. It had been another hour, making a total of three hours he had been gone, and they were fast going from worried to frantic. Harry must be beside himself, thought Hermione, to be stating the obvious like that.

She had barely thought it when he jumped off the couch.

"Where're you going?"

"Down the dungeons."

Hermione jumped up too. "Harry, you can't! She'll just punish you too! You know she will!"

"I don't care!"

"You could just get Ron into _more_ trouble!"

That gave him momentary pause.

"We just have to wait for him to come back," Hermione said reasonably, though her voice was pitched unnaturally high. "You always came back from detention, no matter how late you stayed."

"This isn't detention, Hermione. It's…" he floundered for a word. "…corporal punishment!"

"So were yours," said Hermione stubbornly, her face very white.

Harry suddenly felt sorry for Hermione, waiting for first him, then Ron, to come back from detention, sitting there knowing they were being hurt, but his sympathy for her flickered and died under a wave of worry and frustration. "What's the _matter_ with you, Hermione? Are you such a stickler for the rules that you don't care what's happening to Ron?" Harry exploded.

"Of course I do! You're not being fair, Harry! Just because I don't want any more trouble…" She trailed off. "Of course, we _could_ use the Invisibility Cloak…"

Harry stared. Then he bolted up the stairs to the dormitory.

* * *

"T-t-t-ten B-b-b-butterbeer b-bottles, s-s-s-standing o-th- w-w…"

He gave up on singing to try and pass the time. It hardly qualified as singing; he had no breath to actually make a sound, and his teeth were chattering so hard it was impossible. Was he all that chilled? He was sweating; he couldn't be cold, he reasoned. He couldn't properly tell, anyway.

Which wouldn't have been so bad if he could see anything. There was no light. _None_. He uneasily wondered if this was what it was like to be blind: blackness hemming him in, touching him. Haunting him. It wouldn't have been quite so bad if there was just a single window.

He pictured a square of light, through which he could see the night sky. He had forgotten just how much he loved the stars. The stars above the Burrow, through the window of his room late at night… he drifted into a daydream of the image.

_Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. I'm getting out of here. It's just one night. I can handle that. And then I'll see Hermione and Harry_…

His heart sank. _Harry. Is it true? Did that cow manage to convince him I'd done a Wormtail?_ And would he ever know the truth? Somewhere in his heart of hearts, he knew that alone in here, he would not live to see the morning; he wouldn't be able to tell Harry he hadn't really been in possession of a poison or anything. Not that Harry would doubt him, but what Umbridge had said – Maybe Hermione would tell him when he…Hang on! He didn't want to die! He bloody well _wouldn't_ die, if he had anything to say about it. His Mum would go mad. His brothers would lose it. Ginny would be inconsolable. Hermione and Harry…

_Harry thinks I've betrayed him._

He felt his heart constrict, and the room seemed to get a little colder.

* * *

When Harry reappeared, he had not only the Invisibility Cloak but the Marauders' Map. "It's a maze down there in the dungeons," he explained, opening it out. "Easier this way."

"It's locked with some sort of Impenetrable Charm," Hermione felt obliged to say, "but we'll find a way in somehow," she added hastily at Harry's glare. He looked ready to explode in a fit of protective fury, and she didn't want to be the one to set him off.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," Harry announced, and murmured to the map to point out Ron. There he was – a dot in the dungeons, still, unmoving… and alone. "That's odd," he said, half to himself, feeling a little uneasy. "I thought you said Umbridge and Filch were, um… in charge of the punishment."

"They are."

Looking for Umbridge and Filch on the map, Harry was astonished to find Umbridge in her office and Filch roaming the grounds. "What's going on?" he wondered aloud. "They can't have just left him there."

But Hermione was looking at him very oddly. When she spoke, her tone was apologetic.

"Actually, they could have done – er – don't fly off the handle, Harry, but… I looked it up in _Corporal Punishment in the Wizarding World in Modern Times_, and it does say that an optional addition to the punishment…" she swallowed. "…is to imprison the punished criminal in the dungeons overnight. Harry, where are you – Harry, wait!" For Harry, at these words, had leapt up in a towering rage, overturning the map. Hermione stared helplessly as he seemed to grow taller in his indignation.

"HE'S AFRAID OF THE DARK! HE'S AFRAID OF SPIDERS! HOW _DARE_ SHE LEAVE HIM IN THERE ALL ALONE, ALL NIGHT! I'M GOING TO _MAKE_ HER LET HIM OUT!"

And with that, Harry headed for the door. "Harry, DON'T!" Hermione chased after him, out of the armchair and towards the portrait hole. The Fat Lady looked mildly put out at the noise. "She'll give you detention! You know she will, your hand's not healed, she'll—"

"SHE CAN'T DO THAT TO RON, I DON'T CARE, SHE CAN GO AHEAD AND EXPEL ME IF SHE—"

"—she could just do something awful to Ron! Harry—"

"_Petrificus Totalus_."

And Harry froze in mid-charge, tipping over against the wall for all the world like a piece of furniture.

"Raise your voice a bit, Harry. There's still a couple of people in Hogsmeade who haven't heard."

And Hermione looked on, wide-eyed, as Ginny Weasley appeared at the stairs to the fourth year girls' dormitory, wand still poised from the Freezing Charm.

If Ginny had been a Muggle, Hermione was sure she would be blowing imaginary smoke off the end of her wand like a television Wild West gunslinger. The young witch took in the scene coolly, though her face looked worried and strained. "Looks as if _someone_ was going to go charging in and ask questions later," she said conversationally. "Good thing I came down here to check on Ron, wasn't it?"

Hermione was too upset to match her tone. "Ron's not back yet," she said rather raggedly. "He's in the dungeons. Umbridge and Filch have left him there, it's in _Corporal Punishment in the Wizarding World in Modern Times_, you see, and Harry was going to… was going to…" She broke off as she realized she was babbling. Ginny finished her sentence for her.

"He was just going to go up to Umbridge and get into trouble, right? You can tell me all about it later." With a flick of the wand and a murmured "_Finite_", Ginny released Harry. Before he could say a word, she rounded on him. "Do you want to help my idiot of a brother or not?"

"What kind of a question is that? 'Course I—"

"Well, what's going to be more use to him, shouting about all over the place and blowing off steam, or actually finding him and trying to cheer him up?"

Harry stared. After a moment, he turned and wordlessly piled the Cloak, the Marauders' Map, and the bowl of Murtlap tentacles into his arms. "Just in case," he said somewhat sheepishly as the two witches stared at him.


	7. Chapter 7

He had no idea what time it was. He had made a half-hearted attempt at reaching for his cloak a moment ago, and all he had got for his pains was that his devastated back had started throbbing again, in pulsing spikes that echoed through his whole body. It was now definite that he couldn't move his legs. The cold seeped into his bones; the damp was crippling. He drifted into an edgy doze.

_I'm a Gryffindor._

_I'm not afraid of the dark._

_Liar._

_Well…_

A skittering sound awoke him with a jolt, and he remained rigid and petrified with shock till it moved away._ How long till daylight, anyway? _He had lost all sense of time. The only thing preventing the welcome numbness from taking over and letting him drift off was the rustlings and chitterings he heard in the dungeons. Not knowing what was going to creep up on him was the worst; every rustle made him go rigid with alarm at the thought of creepy-crawlies, and the constant jolts of fright were exhausting him.

There it was. Another noise. _I'm a Gryffindor._ He swallowed as it came closer. It sounded almost like footsteps, but the way his ears were ringing, he couldn't be sure.

"_Alohomora_," he heard a voice whisper. Right, Umbridge again, coming to gloat. He resigned himself to his fate, knowing he had no strength left.

But then there were muttered oaths, and an exclamation of "Doesn't work on this door," and then a rustling of pages, something about it being a good thing about getting a book from the library, and then a babble of whispering voices incanting various spells. He heard the heavy wooden door groan open, and soft footfalls, and someone's indignant murmur, "Not even a lantern, for—!" and then, whispers of "_Lumos._"

Suddenly, the pitch blackness of the dungeon was relieved by tiny circles of dim wandlight, and before he could properly register the figures running in, rushing to his side, he was surrounded by Harry, Hermione and Ginny, all kneeling beside him, their concerned voices blending together, their robes rustling around him. They were fussing around him, their warmth a palpable contrast to the chill, lonely dungeon air. "Ron! Ron! Are you all right? Was it too dreadful?"

He wished he could answer, but his voice seemed to be paralysed in addition to everything else. He could see his friends' shock as they registered his semi-conscious state. "Oh, Ron!" His heart broke at the pain in his baby sister's voice. _This isn't right! I should be the one looking after her, not the other way round! _

"I'm all right," he tried to say, but only a croak came out.

But his friends had already moved into action. "He's freezing." Harry's voice, laced with dangerous anger. Warm hands wrapped around his arms, briskly chafing them. _Hang on a mo — what's _Harry_ doing here?_

"Watch it, mind his wrists! They're hurt," another voice ordered. Harry gasped, and the warm touch upon his wrists grew careful and tender. Then a strand of bushy hair brushed his face. He heard a complicated spell being cast – Hermione, he thought – and somebody's wand began to emit a steady stream of wonderfully warm air. Feeling began to return to his limbs as the warmth began to dispel the chill of the dungeon.

But as sensation returned, the searing pain attacked him again. He tried to speak, but his voice didn't seem to be working properly. He cried out and dry-heaved repeatedly.

"It's all right, mate, your stomach's probably upset with all the excitement, that's all," came a gentle murmur as his face was cupped tenderly in a pair of rough hands. The girls' concerned murmurs were comforting, as well; but suddenly, his embarrassment at throwing up in front of them was swamped by panic as something metallic-tasting caught in his throat and he started coughing and couldn't stop.

He began to gasp for breath and tried to sit up. White-hot agony speared through his back, feeling as though his spine had just been severed. He shrieked with agony, but all that bubbled up was a strangled gurgle. Something tasted vaguely metallic in his mouth. A clot of blood burst from his throat and he dry-heaved again. Spots swam before his vision and he felt himself starting to pass out.

But then a wiry arm supported him across his chest, easing his suffering. A strong hand braced him, and raised him up gently until he was kneeling upright and could breathe, the person's other hand cupping the back of his head and steadying him until the spasm passed. A warm voice was repeating, "Ron, what's _wrong?_ It's all right, take it easy old son, all right?" He looked up to see a pair of green eyes shining with compassion. Harry reached out and wiped something wet and sticky off Ron's chin. The compassion in his voice became tinged with alarm. "_Ron_, what did she _do_ to you? You're coughing _blood_, for heaven's sake!"

"…Whip'ng…" he managed to force out, on a wisp of breath.

"Yeah, but…" Harry sounded frantic with confusion, anger and worry. "A whipping wouldn't…" Harry made to get up, but Ron, panicked, tightened his grip on his arm in a wordless _don't leave me_. He didn't think he had any strength left, but Harry's movement halted. Still cuddling Ron around his front with his left arm, he rested his left cheek against Ron's right, and reached behind Ron with his other hand to stroke his hair fondly. "Shush. 'S all right." The affectionate touch sent Ron's head reeling – why was Harry, of all people, being nice to him?

"..." Ron muttered scratchily. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Why y' here?" he managed to slur. "Thought y' din' wan' be friends any more."

"What are you on about?"

A soft cry interrupted Harry. Suddenly, he let go of Ron and lunged behind him.

* * *

It had been so sudden – one moment, he'd been holding Ron up, wondering what could have reduced him to such a state – the next, Ginny had stepped behind her brother to look at his back, her eyes had rolled up into her head, and she had slipped soundlessly to the floor. Hermione had grabbed for her and missed; Harry only just managed to catch her before she cracked her skull on the flagstones.

Lowering her to the floor, Harry turned his wandlight on Ron's back. Hermione, on her way to tend to Ginny, added her light to the scene.

Harry cried out; he couldn't help it.

"Wha'?" Ron asked, as insistently as he could with his raw throat. "Whassrong?"

"Um, nothing, Ron," Harry stammered.

Harry spoke with a confidence he did not feel; only in Voldemort's visions had he ever seen such a thing. The floor, as far as the wandlight would show, was splattered with blood and bits of flesh. The entire top layer of Ron's back seemed to have been… _gouged_ _out_, Harry couldn't imagine how; it was like a minefield with the mines exploded. His ribs, most of them, were gleaming through; here and there, Harry could catch sickening glimpses of pulsing, shiny things that he hoped weren't internal organs. It looked like an explosion, not a whipping…

Harry's stomach turned over, and he swallowed bile. He could hear Hermione crying quietly, trying to catch breath to cast a Reviving Charm on the unconscious Ginny. "Ron," he said, averting his eyes from his poor blasted back, kneeling again close to his friend's face, gently taking his hands; he carefully avoided touching the wrists. Now his eyes were more used to the darkness, Harry could see that Ron's poor wrists were shiny and raw, as though he had been bound tightly, and doubtless strained against his bonds in his agony. "_Ron_…" he repeated, emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

"R-Ron, how many, um - strokes - did she give you?" Hermione asked. Ginny was beginning to stir, and she knelt and propped her into a sitting position in her arms.

"Hun'r'd," came Ron's shamefaced murmur.

"_What_?"

"A _hundred?_" Harry heard Hermione speaking at the same time.

"With th' first whip. Then… oh, 'm such a git… fifty with th' second…"

"The second—" Harry wasn't sure he wanted to understand, but he played his wandlight about the dungeon floor. He saw a long leather whip, and a—

He actually felt dizzy for a moment. It lay there on the floor, its horrible hooks clotted with flesh and skin. Ron's flesh. Ron's skin. He froze, unable to move. As he looked at it, he saw the hooks… _writhe_, as though searching for prey. His skin crawled. _Fifty with the second_. Fifty times, these hooks had been clawing at Ron. That was why his back was so…

It was Hermione who, looking sick, had the presence of mind to Banish the thing into the furthest corner of the dungeon before Ginny could see it, just as the unconscious girl's eyes fluttered open.

Ron coughed, and spoke. "Wha's so – _ah_…"

Ron's attempt at an airy, casual response was cut off by a choked scream as he tried to move. Harry dropped to his knees beside Ron in an instant, holding his hands – he did not dare touch the flayed shoulders. Harry's chest constricted as his best friend retched and moaned, apparently trying to control himself. The long fingers wrapped around his, Ron clinging onto his hand like a drowning man. In that instant, Harry could have killed Umbridge. He would have done anything to spare Ron this. His own voice sounded useless in his ears, but it seemed to be calming Ron down. "Ssh. Ssh. 'S all right, old son, 's all right. Just don't move, all right, eh? All right?" Harry stroked Ron's cheek, and was struck by the violence of his trembling. He looked at his friend narrowly. Despite the cold, he was bathed in sweat. Harry put a hand to Ron's brow; it was clammy. He saw Hermione approach and press two fingers to his neck, and knew she was thinking the same thing he was: _Shock_.

"Ginny," Hermione said briskly, "take this and get Madam Pomfrey. Now." She shoved the Cloak into the hands of the shaky and white-faced but still determined-looking girl. "This can't wait till morning." She seemed about to say more, but a huff of breath was all that came out. "Go _on_." And, silent as a shadow, Ginny was gone.

Hermione's eyes met Harry's. "_Episkey_ wouldn't work on these. It's much too far gone for that." Harry was still holding onto Ron's hands for dear life. At some point, Ron's head had dropped onto Harry's chest, leaning on him. The flaming hair was drenched with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Harry looked into Hermione's eyes, and what he saw there frightened him more than Ron's whimpers of pain. "Will he be all right?" he tried to ask her, but the words wouldn't come out.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Um, this chapter is dedicated to Daughter of Chaos for her unfailing and wonderful support, and to Spice of Life for a comment that inspired a rewrite of Paragraph 6.Thank you!

* * *

"_Wingardium Leviosa._"

"Right, here we go…"

Harry slipped his hands under Ron's arms. The plan was to manhandle Ron to lie face down on a magically warmed featherbed conjured by Hermione. It wasn't easy, as not only was Ron's lower half paralysed, he was unable to move his torso for the pain, in spite of the Numbing Charm Hermione had cast on him. As Harry shifted him, Ron let out a terrible groan. "Harry, d-d-don't – h-h-h-hurts – c-c-c-can't –"

Harry's whole body chilled at the stuttering – Ron was shaking hard, sweating and chilling – but he forced himself to concentrate. "Just for a moment, Ron. Nearly there." Trying to keep his injured back as straight as possible, he laid him gently down on the soft surface, but then had to reach out bodily and pick up his useless legs and arrange them on the mattress, unbending the stiff knees to get the legs to straighten out. Finally, they got him comfortable, lying half on his side, half on his stomach, in what Hermione called "the recovery position".

"Poor old Ron," Harry said. 'S all right now." He knew it wasn't true; he was consumed with worry about Ron's legs. Would he be able to use them again? Had the whipping severed his spine? And the sick worry had to be quashed, because there was the danger of shock to contend with. He had to keep him warm, and he couldn't cover him up because of the fearful injuries. Hermione sat facing Ron, aiming the heat-emitting wand at his bare torso with one hand, stroking his hair with the other. Harry, wand also emitting warm air, seated himself behind him on the mattress – a distinctly unpleasant position, as it meant he was staring directly at the blasted landscape of Ron's mutilated body. His stomach lurched, but he swallowed the sick, angry feeling. He made to pat Ron on the shoulder, but even here there were awful gashes and raised welts, some even curling round to raise the flesh of the upper arms. He settled for taking Ron's hand in one of his, swearing inwardly; still far too cold and clammy.

Dying. Ron might be dying. He shook his head to clear it, because he couldn't imagine his life without Ron, at Hogwarts or outside it; Hermione was his dearest friend, but it wasn't the same. Nothing would be the same if Ron wasn't by his side, and suddenly, terror consumed him. He couldn't lose him, it was unthinkable. How could he have fun if Ron wasn't there, how would he manage, how would life be bearable? He slipped his other hand under Ron's cold, sweaty face. "Ron," he said, and had to stop to control the tremor in his voice. "Don't…" He had been going to say, _don't die on me, mate_, but stopped himself. "We're going to lose the next match if you don't pull yourself together," he settled for saying, and lightly stroked Ron's sore wrist in what he hoped was a comforting manner. It seemed to be working, because Ron's rigid, agonized posture was starting to relax, his breathing evening slowly out…

"Harry," Hermione said sharply. "He mustn't fall asleep till Pomfrey gets here."

"Um, yeah," said Harry. "W-what should I do?" When Hermione rolled her eyes, he bent to Ron's ear, abashed, and murmured in Ron's ear, "Ron, don't fall asleep."

"That was nothing short of brilliant, Harry," Hermione said dryly, and Harry was gratified at the slow smile that spread across Ron's face.

They were saved from further debate by the door opening. Ginny entered alone. But then a fumbling arm holding a bag appeared in mid-air. A second later it was revealed to be attached to a flannel-clad shoulder, and finally the worried face of Madam Pomfrey materialized out of the folds of the Invisibility Cloak. The mediwitch strode over to the mattress, sparing it an approving glance. Then she saw Ron's back.

"Oh my _goodness_!"

* * *

Poppy kept it to herself, but she thought that little Ginevra had probably come just in time. Youth and strength were a blessing, she thought; an older wizard would almost certainly have died under the whip. 

Her first priority was a series of charms to reverse the immediate danger of death from shock. She sighed with relief as the diagnostic spells moved from "Imminent Death" to "Dangerously Injured." She mentally catalogued the potions she would need; Blood-Replenishing, Flesh-Rebuilding… what had been done to this boy was gruesome. She hadn't seen injuries this bad since the time of You-Know-Who. The worst was yet to come, she knew; healing the damaged nerves and preventing the temporary paralysis from becoming permanent would hurt, especially when feeling returned. She saw the overwhelming relief on Potter's face when she told him it could be healed, but she doubted he would enjoy watching the actual process.

The next few minutes were a blur of activity. Ron lay face-down on the mattress. Harry and Hermione switched positions so that Hermione sat behind Ron to give Pomfrey a hand, and Harry sat facing him. Sitting on either side of him, each took one of his hands as she began the arduous task of healing him, recruiting Ginny as her impromptu assistant.

"Easy does it… hand me the green salve and then the clear potion next, Ginevra…"

As Madam Pomfrey began to heal the area where his kidneys had been exposed, ("This is barbarous! I'll have to regrow parts of the kidneys! Any deeper and we'd be looking at renal failure!") Ron's grip tightened on Harry's hand. Harry looked at him worriedly. Ron's head turned towards him, teeth clenched, features contorted in a grimace. Suddenly he flinched and gasped. Harry's hands clamped tight on Ron's. Hating his helplessness, he watched as his best mate gritted his teeth and tears squeezed themselves out of his tightly closed eyes, sliding silently down the pale face. Frightened, he opened his mouth to say something comforting, but a sound from Ron stopped him.

His eyes opened and met Harry's, flashing with urgency. The blue eyes, though dark with pain, seemed to be trying to tell Harry something private. His gaze slid over to his sister, her hands full of potions, and his head moved almost imperceptibly. Harry moved closer to Ron, so that his ear was almost touching Ron's lips. He was rewarded with the bare ghost of a whisper. "Don' want… Ginny t' see… me snivel. 'S bad enough she has t' be here." He took a deep breath, as though the effort of saying even these few words had exhausted him. "Just try an' help me to… keep quiet, all right?"

Something nameless stirred in Harry. He just nodded, looking earnestly at Ron. He knew stoicism wasn't exactly second nature to his friend, but felt a renewed respect for Ron's desire to hold back any sound of pain to protect his little sister – and if Ron was unaware that Ginny wasn't an idiot, and would notice anyway, then ignorance was bliss as far as he was concerned.

He had been leaning so close to Ron, their cheeks touching, that he started when he felt Pomfrey lean in to talk to him. "I'm going to have to heal your spinal cord before I rebuild the flesh around it, Ronald," Madam Pomfrey said gently. "The nerves themselves aren't severely damaged yet, thank Heaven for small blessings, but there are a number of blood clots compressing them. That's why you can't feel your legs. Some of the vertebrae are cracked and scratched" – her voice shook with anger – "as well. It's too risky to use any kind of spell to render you unconscious while your nerves are damaged, so I'm afraid you're in for a bit of a nasty time. When the nerves are repaired, you'll feel a rush of pain that means the sensation's returning to your legs. It means you'll be able to use the legs again, but it does hurt while it's being done, so just hang on to your friends and try to take deep breaths, all right?"

Pomfrey turned to Ginny with instructions, setting her a task; Ginny took a step backwards and knelt on the flagstones, mixing something out of two vials. Her eyes never left the potions as they caught the dim light in dull gold reflections, her brow knitted in concentration. A tiny part of Harry's mind was admiring Ginny's composure – she was admirably calm considering that she had fainted a little while ago – but when Pomfrey raised her wand and Ron's eyes tensed, everything else was driven clean out of his mind.

He barely had time to see Ron's mouth open in a soundless gasp before the big, freckled hands clamped down on his in a bone-crushing grip; Harry almost cried out himself. He tried to grip back as well as he could, muttering, "there, there," over and over, and cursing his own stupidity. He knew how hard Ron was trying not to let on the treatment was hurting him; Ron's eyes closed, then snapped open, holding his own in a silent entreaty. "Shush. There, there," Harry said again, feeling like the village idiot as he listened to Ron's shuddering gasps. What _did_ you say to help, anyway? He cast about, realizing he knew nothing of what one was supposed to say to make someone feel better; the Dursleys had just shut him up in the cupboard and left him to his own devices when he was sick or hurt, so he had nothing to go on. He could hear Hermione crooning to Ron, stroking his hair, speaking in a low, comforting voice of nothing and everything, lessons, meals, gossip. Ron squeezed his eyes shut in agony, and Harry felt helpless. He wanted to help Ron as he had never wanted anything in his life. But how?

"Ferret," he whispered, suddenly.

Ron's eyes opened, lit up with a flash of amusement, though his face was still drawn.

Harry screwed up his face in what he hoped was a passable imitation of Professor McGonagall's scandalized tone. "Professor Moody, _is that a student_?"

Ron's face was torn between grimacing and giggling. Encouraged, Harry pressed on. In his best Scottish accent, he whispered, "_We do not use Transfiguration as a punishment!_"

Ron's knuckles were white around Harry's hand; his body jerked and his eyes flickered shut as he gasped with pain. Then his eyes opened, and he sniggered. He kept on sniggering through another gasp of anguish.

"Brace yourself," Madam Pomfrey said. "Now the feeling should return to your legs."

"…_ah_…"

Ron's snigger was cut off with an awful, anguished whimper that knifed through Harry's heart. Tears slipped silently from his squeezed-shut eyes. His fingers wrapped around Harry's and the blue eyes opened and sought his own, pleading for relief.

"Ssh, it's all right. Ssh, Ron. Ssh. It's going to be all right." Harry hated his own impotence, hated seeing the suffering in Ron's eyes, _hated_ it. If he could have taken Ron's pain, he would have. Clamping down on his feelings, he cast about in his head for a joke. "Um, Ron. What's the difference between Snape giving out detention and the IRA?"

Ron seemed to forget his pain for a split-second as he gave Harry a befuddled stare. "Wha's th' IRA?"

Oh, lovely time to run headlong into Muggle/Wizarding world differences. "Um, what's the difference between Snape giving out detention and a band of Death Eaters holding you hostage?"

This time, between gasps of pain, his friend smiled in anticipation, sensing a joke, his knuckles still white around Harry's hand. "Wha'?"

"You can negotiate with the Death Eaters."

Ron let out one of those laughs where you just can't help yourself, and kept it up, sniggering and grimacing incongruously, through the spasm that followed. Encouraged, Harry went on. "Why's a cauldron got more fashion sense than Malfoy?"

"Why?"

"Malfoy can wear a cauldron as a helmet, but what cauldron in its right mind would be caught dead wearing Malfoy?"

And so it went. Harry held Ron's hands and told him lame jokes, Hermione soothed him and stroked his hair, and Ginny handed Pomfrey salves and potions, until Ron's back was partly rebuilt (the gouged-out portions filled in with Replenipaste until the flesh could grow back), his gasps of pain faded into sighs of relief, and his stiff, agonized position relaxed into a more natural one. Towards the end of the treatment, he fixed Harry with a beatific, slightly drugged smile, and his eyes fluttered closed as he slipped into what looked like healthy, healing sleep.

Finally, Pomfrey sat back on her heels, exhausted but content. "This should do until I can get him into a bed," she announced. "I'll get started on regrowing the rest in twenty-four hours. It should eventually be as good as new, only a few scars. He'll have to stay in the infirmary for a few days, but he's out of danger now." She rose and smiled at the boy's friends and sister. "You've done well." She hesitated. "I'd say your actions saved his life. I want to see him in the infirmary first thing tomorrow morning, as soon as that … as the Headmistress releases him."

Hermione rose and whispered something to Ginny. Harry watched dully as the two girls confabulated in whispers. Then Ginny came up to them and bent over her brother. "'Night, Ron," she whispered. "I'll see you tomorrow. 'Night, Harry." Then she was gone, helping Pomfrey out, helping her carry an armful of medicines.

"What did you tell her?" Harry asked as Hermione made her way back to the mattress.

"Are _you_ going back to the dormitory tonight?" Hermione shot back.

"'Course not," Harry retorted, already lying down next to Ron on the featherbed.

"I thought not," she said practically. "Neither am I, and the Cloak's not big enough to cover the three of us. I told Ginny to go back to bed. She's lost enough sleep as it is."

Harry looked up at her with a feeling akin to awe. "How did you do that? Only Mrs. Weasley can make Ginny do anything!"

Hermione's smile seemed a trifle smug. "I have my ways." Her eyes flickered to Ron. "She was remarkably sensible about the whole thing, really."

"Mm." Harry yawned hugely. He knew he ought to be more interested, but the anger and fear had taken their toll; now that he was no longer terrified for Ron, he could barely keep his eyes open. He looked fondly at Ron, sleeping, taking comfort in the smile on his face, the easy regular breathing. His head dropped to his arm on the wonderfully soft, warm mattress, and he yawned hugely, tenderly brushing a strand of hair off Ron's brow, frowning as he ran his fingers gently over the dark purple bruise on his chin. "How shall we know when to wake up?"

Hermione rolled tired eyes. "Oh all right, I'll handle it. Good night, Harry."

"Thanks, Hermione… 'night…" He gave another jaw-dislocating yawn before drifting off into pleasant oblivion almost immediately.


	9. Chapter 9

He awoke to Hermione jostling him. "Come on, Harry! We've got to get this place back the way it looked last night!"

"Is it morning already?" he asked fuzzily. He was warm and comfortable. Not just from the featherbed, but because he was snuggled up to Ron's sleeping form, and feeling his friend's slow, even breathing was the most comforting thing in the world after the terror of almost losing him last night. Harry forced himself to sit up and look around. He wondered how Hermione knew it was morning: to all intents and purposes, nothing had changed. It was still pitch-dark, and Ron was still dead to the world.

"Breakfast's in an hour," Hermione informed him, and spouted some completely incomprehensible mini-lecture about how you could get your wand to act like an alarm clock and burglar alarm all in one, "and they should be coming soon. I've relocked the door, but we need to clear away the mattress and–" she faltered "–cast a glamour to make him look the way he did last night."

"Come on then," he said gamely. He pulled out his wand and made short work of the mattress with a well-aimed "_Evanesco_." But then he turned to Hermione. "I'm not that good at glamour charms," he admitted.

"It's not that hard," she said in an odd voice. "You just have to really concentrate on the appearance you want to create – to see it in your mind's eye in detail."

_Oh_.

Now he understood her reluctance. Where was the famed Gryffindor courage when you needed it?

"Ladies first," he tried.

"After you," she said.

"Together then?"

"Fair enough. On the count of three. One… two… three!"

Harry closed his eyes and concentrated. He winced as he forced himself to remember the blood-drenched scene, the appalling injuries, the near-fatal damage. Somehow he conjured up the vision he had seen when he rose to look at Ron's flayed back; gritting his teeth, he saw again the blasted landscape of destroyed flesh, the blood and lumps of ripped-out tissue, the bone stripped bare.

"_Glamorus_!"

He heard Hermione whimper and opened his eyes. The light was still limited, but he could see that the scene was an excellent approximation of the nightmare they had walked into a few hours ago.

"Oh Harry," she choked out. "I feel as if we're hurt him all over again."

"Yeah, it looks awful, doesn't it? But it's only a glamour, Hermione." He tried to live up to his responsibility towards the only girl in the room. "He's all right." Chivalry, after all, was not dead, even if the renewed sight made him want to puke, kill Umbridge and/or hug Ron.

Hermione's wand began to vibrate with a high-pitched hum. "Quick! They're coming!"

They huddled beneath the Cloak in a corner, closing their eyes against the glare of the over-bright torches in the corridor as the dungeon door opened.

Filch and Umbridge walked in.

"Look at Sleeping Beauty!" Umbridge sneered. "Maybe we should have given him more, shouldn't we, Mr. Filch?"

A low growl rumbled in Harry's throat. Hermione gave him a sharp jab in the ribs. He controlled himself with difficulty.

"Maybe. But it was a good flogging, Headmistress." Filch appeared to gloat as he gazed intently at Ron's back. Harry found himself thanking his lucky stars that they had created an accurate glamour.

Then Umbridge planted a high-heeled shoe in the middle of Ron's flayed back. "Wake up, Mr Weasley!" Gleefully, she shook him with her foot.

Hermione had almost, almost made a sound as she saw this. But then her arms shot out and she bodily gripped Harry around the waist to restrain him from bolting out from under the Cloak.

Ron's eyes opened. He winced, but then looked around in puzzlement. Harry calmed down; if Ron had been as bad as the glamour made him out to be, he would have been shrieking and convulsing, not merely wincing. "Harry?" he said sleepily, his eyes scanning the room blearily.

Umbridge laughed shortly. "Still obsessed with your precious Boy-Who-Lived? Hoping he'll forgive you? Pigs might fly. I told you, he certainly won't want to be seen with _you_ again."

What? 

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione. There was something funny about what Umbridge had said. Harry ran it thorough his head, but no – something about this did _not_ compute. He'd ask Ron about it as soon as he was back on his feet. Hermione placed a calming hand on his shoulder as they watched Umbridge kick Ron again, taunting, "Dark wizards have no place in this school, Mr Weasley! You should thank me for even allowing you to stay on here." Harry had to control himself as he watched Ron struggle to get to his feet, but fall down again, as unsteady as a child learning to walk, as Umbridge and Filch watched gloatingly.

"Off with you," Umbridge went on, "and do try to avoid your _admirers_, Mr. Weasley." She giggled girlishly as they took a few steps towards the door. "Oh, and here's your wand back." She tossed it to the floor, and seemed to take far more pleasure than was normal in watching how stiffly he reached for it. The low growl returned to Harry's throat, but thankfully for his sanity, Umbridge and Filch didn't linger, but strode briskly out of the dungeons.

Hermione put a restraining hand on Harry's arm as the sound of footsteps began to fade, leaving Ron to cast about him, looking bewildered. He got up onto his hands and knees, obviously very stiff and sore, and tried to rise.

He'd almost managed it when his knees gave way.

Harry shucked off the Invisibility Cloak and ran to his friend, catching him in his arms just as he fell forward. "Steady on, old son," he said. "Just lean on me for a bit. That's it."

Hermione bundled the Cloak into her arms and ran up to Ron as he leant heavily against Harry, their arms locked. Raising his head from Harry's chest, he looked up into his face, then around at Hermione, and blinked. The bewilderment on Ron's face was comical.

"Hullo," said Harry.

"Good morning," said Hermione.

Ron stared for a long moment. Then he blurted delightedly: "So it _was_ you! I'm not going mental after all!"

The look of stupefaction on his face, coupled with the relief of knowing he was going to be all right, made Harry suddenly snigger. Hermione was giggling too, and suddenly they couldn't stop laughing. Ron looked from one to the other, and broke out in a grin. "Should have sussed out it was you two under the Cloak. But I thought I must have been going potty when I woke up alone."

"You're not," Hermione said, her face going dead serious in an instant as she reached up to run a hand lightly over his hair.

"Never alone," Harry echoed firmly, tightening his grip on Ron's arms.

Ron grinned down at them, then staggered. But Harry was already there, stepping closer to him, supporting his taller friend's weight. He might be a skinny little midget, he thought grimly, but he could be the rock of Gibraltar if Ron needed him to be. Hermione placed a supporting hand under his elbow.

"Come on, you," Hermione said, mock-sternly. "Madam Pomfrey's going to have us chained up and whipped too if we don't deliver you to her at once!"

"Frightened us half out of our mind, you did." Harry did his best Mrs. Weasley impression.

"Don't you _ever_ do that again."

Ron leaned on them gratefully. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, grinning like an idiot. Harry pulled Ron's arm round his shoulder, careful not to touch his healing back, holding his best mate's arm and wrist with both his hands instead of putting an arm round his injured waist. Hermione did the same. Supporting their friend, they led him out of the dungeons and into the light.


	10. Epilogue 1

Note: Since I think epilogues are the most important part of a story, I tend to go overboard - over 3000 words! Thus, this is Epilogue 1; there will be an Epilogue 2 before this story is all wrapped up. Many thanks to all my loyal and wonderful reviewers. This chapter is for DoC again; she knows why.

* * *

Ron lay face-down in bed in the Hospital Wing. Harry and Hermione resumed their positions perched on the side of his bed, which they had only vacated for Pomfrey to finish treating him. Thanks to her ministrations, he had just been given a reasonably clean bill of health and pronounced fit for visitors. 'Fit', Ron thought, was a matter of opinion; he'd conjured a rather weak Reflecting Charm to see his back, and although the pain was very faint now, he thought the sight looked extremely alarming. The yellow salve hardly hid the gouged-out, lumpy flesh of his back, the bare, raw _meat_ – what else could he call it, really? – stained scarlet with blood, and his shoulders, upper arms and lower back were festooned with bruises in tasteful decorator colours of black, blue and purple. Even _more_ alarming was the cheerful way Harry and Hermione looked at the disgusting sight, saying that this was nothing short of a miracle, and that it had been ten times worse. Now _that_ was definitely on the list of things he didn't want to know about. He'd overheard Pomfrey telling McGonagall that he'd lost ten per cent of his body mass. He wasn't sure how bad that was, but McGonagall had been spitting nails…

His reverie was interrupted by a babble of voices; officious male tones and the sound of Madam Pomfrey's yelling. The three friends exchanged glances and hardly breathed. Eavesdropping was becoming second nature to them, Ron thought amusedly.

"Sirs, this is hardly the time…"

"High Inquisitor's orders, Nurse – er…"

"It's Madam Pomfrey to you, Mediwitch First Class!"

There was a commotion at the door to the infirmary, and it crashed open. Harry slipped off the bed and opened the curtains a crack, enough to see what was going on. Two sour-faced elderly gentlemen in bowler hats and grey suits were pushing their way in past Madam Pomfrey, brandishing clipboards. "As the first student to undergo corporal punishment at Hogwarts in a hundred years, we must ask Mr. Wesley a few questions for Ministry records."

"It's _Weasley_," Pomfrey bristled, "and I won't allow it."

"Would you go against the orders of the High Inquisitor?"

"YES!" Pomfrey roared. "And if you don't get out this minute, I'm going to do something drastic."

"Just a moment, Jeeves." The Ministry representative abruptly changed his tune. "_Weasley_! Any relation to Arthur Weasley at the Ministry?"

"His father, actually," said Pomfrey, obviously trying to hold them at bay, "but what's that got to do with…"

"Well, well! His father is a friend of ours."

"A very dear friend."

"We can apprise him of how his son is doing."

"Splendid woman, splendid!" one of the gentlemen said. "Protecting her patient and all that. Madam Pomfrey, rest assured we won't disturb him in any way. We only want to ask him a few questions. We'll reassure his father, too."

"Well, I suppose… if it's just a few minutes," Pomfrey said, sounding doubtful.

"Not to worry," said Jeeves, bowing with a flourish.

"His friends are inside…"

"Splendid, splendid!" said not-Jeeves. "Let them stay. We won't trouble you any further, dear madam. A few questions and we shall be out in a jiffy."

And then the Ministry officials were upon them.

Closing the curtains carefully behind them, they turned, took one look at Ron's hurts, dropped their bags and clipboards and began to weep.

"Ronnie!" Jeeves fell to his knees by Ron's bedside so his face was level with Ron's. "_Ronnie_…" He buried his face in the mattress, shuddering with emotion.

"Oh, Merlin," said not-Jeeves, "what did she _do_ to you?" He whirled frantically to Jeeves. "Ginny was right, she's effing skinned him alive!_ Look_ at him! He can't bloody well lie on his back, he's been whipped so hard—" His voice caught in a sob and he wiped at his face.

Harry and Hermione had barely exchanged glances when Ron said hesitantly, "Fred? George?"

Jeeves raised haggard eyes to not-Jeeves. "I'm going to kill Filch."

"Not without me you're not," not-Jeeves said in a chilling tone as he gazed at the damage to Ron, looking murderous.

Ron looked startled. "No-one's killing anyone, all right?" he snapped. "I don't want you two going to Az-"

"No-one's going to Azkaban!" snapped Jeeves.

"And don't you ever do anything like that again, d'you hear?" not-Jeeves wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, "_ever_! We can take care of ourselves! She wouldn't have sent us anywhere! She couldn't send a suppository up her own arse without a Pointing Charm!"

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Ron said, an edge to his voice. "D'you want her to do the same to you? _You've_ got a whipping overdue since the last time you were here, in case you'd forgotten! Go on, it's been nice to see you, now naff _off_!"

"Do the same to us, indeed," snorted not-Jeeves, kneeling beside Jeeves on the floor next to his twin and taking Ron's hand, "I'd just bloody well like to see her try."

"The cow! She's hurt our Ronnie, she's _really hurt_ him, Fred!" Jeeves turned a stricken face to his brother.

"I know, Georgie," not-Jeeves/Fred's eyes filled with tears again, "I know."

"When did you two get so maudlin?" Ron snapped. "I'm all right! Ask Pomfrey, I'm going to be fine!"

"When did _we_ get so maudlin?" Jeeves/George looked back at Ron, his face hard. "Since a certain little brother who's too self-sacrificing for his own good told Umbridge to have him whipped rather than send his precious bruvvers to Azkaban!"

Ron gaped. "How did you know that?"

Not-Jeeves/Fred snorted. "Sent us a Howler, didn't she?"

"Umbridge?"

"_Ginny_, you twit," George rolled his eyes, "Nice to see your mental capacity, such as it is, is still intact."

Ron looked stunned. "That's right – she was there last night…" He paused, lost in thought. "_She_ didn't waste any time, did she. I've only just got here."

"Yeah, well, we got the Howler in the middle of the night."

"Been working on these disguises all morning."

"Had to do some fancy con tricks to get someone from the Ministry to call and tell that bitch that Ministry officials were coming to _congratulate_ her."

"Bleurgh."

While this was going on, Harry caught Hermione's eye. "Is that what you told Ginny when you…"

She nodded, her eyes with a certain _light_ in them, and Harry was left watching the brotherly reunion while pondering the devious ways of girls.

"Ronnie, it's wonderful and brave and noble and all…"

"…you doing this for us…"

"…but if you ever do something like this again…"

"…we'll kill you."

"She'd never have touched…"

"Oh, SHUT UP!" Hermione exploded. "Don't you realize what he saved you from?"

The twins turned to Hermione even as Harry made ineffectual shushing noises and wondered where he could get hold of a drop or two of Scold's Scald.

"Hermione," Fred began, "she couldn't have sent us to…"

"Have you forgotten Ministerial Decree No. 282?"

Four boys looked at her blankly.

"The one that goes, "The Minister of Magic, or his high-ranking aides of the rank of Minister and above, may, _at his sole discretion_ and _in the location of his choosing_, disarm _and detain_ any person or persons on suspicion of terrorist activities, without the obligation to produce a warrant, for a period of up to six months, renewable by his order?' " Hermione quoted, practically shaking with rage.

A bolt of shock pulsed through Harry. The twins' identical faces slowly went through the spectrum of blankness to dawning understanding to shocked disbelief to horrified recognition. Ron looked vindicated, then absolutely terrified. "Right. Now could you please get the flaming hell out of…"

"Ronnie…"

"I don't know what to…"

"You – for _us_ – you…"

The twins seemed at a loss for words, but Hermione certainly wasn't. She cut through their protestations of gratitude and Ron's interruptions with a firm yet surprisingly compassionate tone. "Look, George. Fred. I'm not saying 'I told you so.' I don't even have to say it. But does this convince you that your actions have consequences? That not everything is a _game_, especially not now, with things the way they are?"

Harry's head snapped up. Hermione was staring the twins down with a calm that was far removed from her usual hectoring. The twins looked at one another, then nodded.

"We know."

"Hermione, we swear we never meant…"

"Ginny _did_ tell you that he nearly died?"

Harry felt a little sorry for them at the pain in their faces as they nodded. "We…"

"Of _course_ you love your brother and you don't want anything to happen to him. I don't need you to tell me that. And I don't expect you never to get into trouble, because I know you will, one way or the other. All I want is this: Swear that you'll never test your products on Hogwarts students again. Not because I'm a prefect, not because you're afraid of your Mum…"

"Hermione…" Ron began.

"…but on your – on your liberty and your brother's blood, swear it."

"We swear," the twins said simultaneously. Ron gasped.

"What…" Harry whispered, _sotto voce_ to Ron.

Ron whispered back. "Any swearing by family's blood's a major oath in the Wizarding world, Harry, I can't believe they're…"

"And that you'll at least _think_ about consequences before you act."

They exchanged flash-quick glances, and a firm nod. "We swear."

"On your liberty and your brother's blood?"

"On our liberty and our brother's blood," the twins said with one voice.

Hermione sat down again, looking satisfied, as though she had been wanting to do this for a very long time. The twins turned back to Ron, looking very much chastened.

"Ronnie, you… for us… I can't believe… I still don't want you to…"

"You're still our little brother, you…"

Ron fixed them with as fierce a glare as he could manage. "Look, if _you_ had to choose between _me_ going to Azkaban and getting a few knocks yourselves, I know what you'd choose, so not so much of the holier-than-thou, all right?"

"We don't want you getting _hurt_ for us!"

Harry rolled his eyes, his patience starting to wear thin. "Look," he said rather shortly, "couldn't you two just thank him and get it over with, in lieu of all this fumphering around?" He took Hermione's hand. "Come on, Hermione." She seemed surprised, but went with him willingly enough through the curtains, stopping only to Transfigure the two chairs at Ron's bedside into fluffy floor cushions.

Listening through the curtains, Harry was gratified to see that his words seemed to have done the trick, as he could hear more tears and broken words through the thin barrier, but now he could make out phrases such as "owe you our lives" and "the bravest thing anyone could have done" and "if you ever want anything" and "we'll never forget this" and so on.

When he judged they'd had enough, and Ron's protestations started to get louder and more frequent than the twins' gratitude, he pulled open the curtains again, in time to hear the tail-end of Ron saying, "Anyhow, you two've done a lot for me; just this year you bought me those dress robes, you can't know what that meant to me, honestly."

"Madam Pomfrey's coming!" Harry said loudly, feeling his face burn.

"Well, suppose we'd better go…" Fred said reluctantly.

"Ronnie, could you owl us? When you're feeling better, of course…"

"He's really going to be all right, really," Harry took pity on them again, "and I'll owl you, or Hermione will, and let you know how he's healing." He saw the twins wince at the 'healing' – he supposed it emphasized that Ron was _wounded_ – but there was no taking it back. He tried a reassuring grin, and even Hermione managed a weak smile in the face of the very real anguish in the twins' eyes.

" 'Course he'll be all right!" Fred stretched his mouth into a smile. The twins' voices were unnaturally chipper, brittle almost as they turned back to Ron, kneeling on the cushions by his bed to get on his eye level.

"Made of strong stuff, he is!" George sounded a bit too hearty.

They grinned widely, saying cheerful goodbyes. George shook Ron's hand, grinning. Then the grin seemed to fall off his face as he suddenly, unselfconsciously pulled his younger brother's hand to him and pressed his lips to it with fierce affection. Fred stood and bent over Ron and kissed the top of his head, burying his face in his hair. "We love you, Ronnie," one of them said.

"I know," Ron said, as red as his hair but seeming pleased. "SodoI. Gits. Now _move_!"

"Ron!" As they turned to leave, a redheaded blur burst through the curtains. Ginny shouldered her way past them and dropped to her knees beside Ron's bed. She took Ron's hand, ignoring the strange men, and he smiled at her. Then she looked at his back, heaved a huge sigh of relief, and gave him a watery smile as tears of release began, slowly, to make their way down her face.

Ron reached out a big hand and wiped her tears away. "Don't cry. I'm all right," he grinned, then pulled her awkwardly into a gentle, one-armed hug. "Thanks, Gin-Gin," he whispered; then he hissed, "And _don't tell Mum,_ or I'll never hear the end of it."

Ginny smiled through her tears; then she rolled her eyes. "Madam Pomfrey said there were Ministry inspectors in here," she whispered to Ron. "Are these them? Are they giving you a bad time? Because I just learnt a new hex…"

Harry grinned. He couldn't help it. Since they saw Ginny, Fred and George had been sidling unobtrusively towards the curtains. Behind Ginny's back, they were making frantic gestures of negation to Ron, waving their hands frenetically in the air. At Ron's wicked, understanding grin, they sidled even faster.

"Them? Oh, don't worry, Gin-Gin," his eyes flashed with laughter and Hermione put a hand to her mouth to hide the corners of her mouth curving upwards, "they're Fred and George in disguise come to see me, wasn't it nice of them—"

They turned tail and ran.

"—Leaving so soon, Ginny?"

With a shriek of rage, Ginny had leapt up and bolted out of the room after them like a hurricane. Ron, Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, shaking with silent laughter, as he heard the sound of footsteps receding from the infirmary, and Pomfrey's "The inspectors? They went that way, Ginevra…"

"Oh! Oh, I'm dying!" Ron was weeping with laughter now. "I wish I had a camera! Did you see their faces?" Hermione was holding Harry up as tears of mirth streamed down his face, looking only marginally more in control herself.

_Now that everything's going to be all right, there was something I wanted to ask Ron… _Harry thought, but his train of thought was derailed as the curtains were drawn open again, to reveal the entire complement of the DA, what appeared to be the whole Gryffindor tower, and beyond them quite a few faces which he was sure were Hufflepuffs and one or two Ravenclaws. And was that a Slytherin fourth year?

Lavender Brown was already halfway into the room, and sank gracefully into one of Hermione's cushions. "Was it too awful?" she asked.

"He's in hospital, what do _you_ think?" retorted Parvati, but good-naturedly.

"Um, hope you're feeling better," said Neville, eyeing Ron's back with pained compassion.

"Welcome back," smiled Lavender.

Ron craned his neck. Outside the door were students as far as the eye could see. "Now, then!" Pomfrey's voice echoed out from beyond the door over the milling students. "No more than five visitors at a time! ORDER!"

Ron gaped at his classmates. "What's all this in aid of?"

"You mean you don't _know_?" Seamus said. This seemed to be the signal for everybody to start speaking at once.

"The DA's here for you, after we hexed that Malfoy into next week…" Katie said enthusiastically.

"Ginny Weasley used really a clever hex on Malfoy, do you know her? Oh, she's your sister, of course…" Luna Lovegood's soft voice carried through the din.

"You should have seen her use it just now on a couple of bowler-hatted types from the Ministry, I saw them running out of the school with bats chasing them like the hounds of Hades…"

"None of the Gryffindors believed that rubbish. So we're all here to pledge our support. We speak on behalf of the entirety of Gryffindor House when we say we think you're a fine fellow… and we know Malfoy was lying, the filthy git." Ernie MacMillan's pompous tone lapsed a bit towards the end.

"But the people from the other Houses are here," Neville Longbottom began, "because…"

"Everybody wants to get a glimpse of the first student to be whipped in about a hundred years."

"Yeah, no student's ever been whipped in the Wizarding World since the turn of the century," volunteered the Slytherin.

"You're part of Wizarding history! You're famous!" grinned Neville.

Ron's mouth fell open.

"Tell us what it was like," prompted Padma.

Lavender looked deeply into Ron's eyes. "Did you suffer terribly?" she sighed.

Ron perked up noticeably. "Uh – yeah, terribly, that's right," he said, nodding enthusiastically. The pretty girl sighed again.

Harry cleared his throat and caught Hermione's eye. "Er, Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?"

He slipped off the bed and sidled towards the window. "Can I have a word?"

But Hermione wouldn't recognize a hint if she was bludgeoned over the head with it - "Can't you just tell me whatever it is?"- so Harry took her hand and bodily pulled her aside as the well-wishers poured in.

"Let him have a minute or two, for heaven's sake!"

"Oh – well, I suppose so," Hermione said, rather tartly in Harry's opinion, but he persisted.

"How can we breathe with this lot in here?" he pressed on. "Let's go and cadge some tea and biscuits off the house-elves or something."

Hermione appeared about to say something else, but her gaze fell on Ron, so obviously glowing at being the centre of attention for once, that she seemed to relent. "I _could_ do with something to eat. Maybe Dobby…"

Discretion proved to be the better part of Gryffindor valour; they made themselves scarce and left Ron to his breathless audience.


	11. Epilogue 2

Author's Note: I eventually plan to write a THIRD epilogue to this - I want to write Umbridge's trial. If it's to be HBP compliant, she'll have to get off with a slap on the wrist - but I still want to write it. However, my readers may consider this story over for the time being.

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It was late when the last of the students left. Well, technically he supposed they'd been shooed out, really; Pomfrey had appeared about to have a heart attack.

He missed Harry and Hermione.

The thought had come out of the blue, but he did. Yeah, it was nice to be the center of attention, and it was wonderful to be famous and fawned upon. But.. For the first time he understood what Harry always said. Well, he didn't exactly _say_ it, but as good as; once all the people had cleared out, it was a bit lonely. He supposed still being under the weather made you feel out of sorts, too; whatever it was, he felt a funny sort of emptiness.

"Ron!"

The whisper came from the door, though he couldn't see them. Then the Cloak slipped off, and suddenly they were next to him. Still lying perforce on his stomach, he propped himself up on his elbows to look at them.

"I brought this—" Harry produced a chess set.

"Couldn't wait for me to trounce you in the Common Room, could you?" Ron couldn't help grinning.

"Oh, _char_ming!"

Hermione giggled. "And I brought you—"

Ron groaned. "I know. My homework."

"No," Hermione said, sounding offended, "Cockroach Creams."

"Oh, _brilliant_!" Ron perked up, taking the proffered Honeydukes bag and stuffing one into his mouth. Bliss.

"There's some chocolate here too," Hermione added. "You should really eat some, remember Professor Lupin, chocolate's really good for depression."

He swallowed and stared at her. "I'm not depressed."

"Well, you should be." Hermione retorted.

"I like that!"

"Listen, Ron," Harry cut in, "what Hermione means is that you've been – well – "

"Oh, don't mince words, Harry," Hermione said. "He's been tortured." At Ron's snort, she continued, "Yes you have, Ron, so don't try to deny it. Muggles – in wars – some of them were tortured enough to get into a War Crimes tribunal, and they weren't as badly hurt as you! What I'm saying is," her voice softened, "you've been through a terrible thing. If you feel depressed –"

Harry cut in. "Yeah, if you get nightmares or – or remember it and – and get panicky or something – it doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you. It's um – all right to be upset. It doesn't make you – you know, weak or anything. That's all."

For some reason, hearing it from Harry calmed him; he had the feeling that Harry was speaking from experience. He knew that should disturb him, or that he should pursue the thought further or something, but he was too tired and content in their presence to care. He rummaged around in the bag and popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth. Hermione was right, it did make him feel better.

He closed his eyes as the wonderful taste filled his mouth. Feeling decidedly better, he decided to change the subject. "How'd you get these, anyway? They only sell them in Hogsmeade."

Hermione turned pink. "Well…"

"She sent Dobby to get them," said Harry, looking highly amused.

Ron turned thrilled, incredulous eyes on her. "What? You ordered a house-elf to do your bidding? Hermione Granger, I'm ashamed of you—"

"I paid him, all right, so could you two both drop it?" Hermione burst out, looking sheepish.

Ron burst out laughing anyway. He laughed until he had to lower his head to the pillow to fight off a bout of dizziness, and raised his head to find their eyes on him in a mix of compassion and anger that made his heart lurch, though he didn't know why. "Well- thanks, anyway." Longingly, he eyed the chess set. "I'd love to beat you at chess, Harry," he sighed ruefully, "but I don't think I'm up to sitting up again just yet—"

His friends looked sympathetic but determined. "That's all right…"

"We'll think of something."

And so Harry and Hermione ended up lying face-down on either side of Ron, as though they were reading a book together, only with the chessboard in front of them instead of a book. They munched on Ron's sweets contentedly, gossiped animatedly, and played chess half-heartedly, and Ron finally felt he had all the visitors he needed. His memories of that night in the dungeon were a bit hazy, but he remembered enough to know that these two had reached out and pulled him back from – well, death sounded a bit melodramatic but, well… _death_. It wasn't, he supposed, necessary to be famous and popular like Harry or bright like Hermione. Just having friends like these was enou—

"…be friends any more?"

"Hmm?"

"I said," Harry fiddled with his knight, which was shouting something unprintable at Ron's rook, "there was something you said, and Umbridge – she said I wouldn't want to be seen with you, and you said I didn't want to be your friend – any idea what that was all about?"

Ron felt his face flame. Looking back, he felt like a right git for believing Umbridge, but then… Perhaps he could deny the whole thing.

He heard Hermione gasp. That girl was really too bright for her own good. "She told you Harry believed Malfoy, didn't you? When he said we'd all turned against Ron because we'd heard he was in league with the Death Eaters, that he wouldn't have any friends any more…"

Ron groaned and lowered his head to the chessboard until a feisty pawn poked him in the forehead with his spear. "Oi! Watch where you're putting your fat head, you!"

Raising his head, Ron looked at the board, thought for a moment, and then deliberately moved the pawn into the path of Harry's queen. Amused, he looked on as the pawn yelled, "No, no, can't you take a joke? AARGHH!" as Harry's Queen cracked him in the head with her mace and dragged him unconscious off the board.

Harry wasn't looking at the board. He seemed to be replaying the accusations Malfoy had made. He turned to Ron. "You didn't think for a minute we'd really believe that rubbish, did you? If you did, you're thicker than I thought."

Ron sighed. "Well, it wasn't just that."

"What, then?" Hermione broke off a piece of chocolate and handed it to Ron. Her hand settled gently on top of his. "You can tell us."

He popped the chocolate into his mouth and ate it slowly, feeling the strength spread through him. Knowing Hermione wouldn't let up unless he told, he finally said slowly, "Um… well, she said… um, something about Harry dropping me because he believed I'd done a Wormtail."

"WHAT?" Harry exploded, but subsided at Ron and Hermione's shushing. He looked around at the quiet, dimly lighted infirmary before continuing in a furious whisper. "She said _I_… I'd _never_ think that, least of all on _Malfoy's_ say-so!"

"Well, no," Ron looked intently at the chessboard, "but she said you wouldn't…" he mumbled on, "wouldn't want to be friends with me anymore, and…"

Harry was still looking incredulous. "You didn't actually _believe_ that, did you?"

"He was all alone and feeling poorly, and of course that horrible woman took advantage of it!" the words tumbled out of Hermione. "It's easy for people to put ideas into your head when you're hurt and completely in their power and they've got you trapped and all alone, surely you can understand that!"

It was funny the way Harry fell suddenly, completely silent.

"Harry?" Ron asked nervously. "You all right, mate?"

"Oh, yeah," Harry said, his voice seeming to come from a million miles away, "just… nothing. But Ron," he turned to Ron earnestly, urgently, "you're my best mate in the world. I'd never believe you could do what Wormtail did to my dad, never! No matter _who_ said so!"

"Mphrgh," Ron mumbled intelligently. "Sorry, I s'pose I can be a bit thick sometimes."

"No, you're not, don't apologize," Harry went on, seeming to struggle to find the right words, "it's not thick at all, I mean, I can see how you might believe her if she had you locked in and calling you names like freak and usel—" He broke off abruptly and Ron gasped, recognizing the Dursleys' favourite insult, remembering the iron bars on Harry's window. But that thought would have to wait for another time, because Harry was barreling on: "…er, I mean telling you all sorts of things, you know, I can see how you might believe them."

"Right," Ron said.

"But Ron," Harry took a deep breath and started off, sounding sincere, "Even if you pointed your wand at me and said "Avada Kedavra" I wouldn't believe you meant it, you git. I'd never believe you'd betray me as long as I lived, not unless you killed me." He picked up the phrase again with the air of one trying to make sense of what he has just said. "But if you _did_ kill me I still wouldn't believe it, because I'd have died trusting you anyway, wouldn't I, and I couldn't _stop_ trusting you afterwards because then I'd be dead. So I'd _still_ never believe it as long as I lived…" His mouth twisted wryly. "Mucked _that_ up good and proper, didn't I."

Hermione sniffled. "N—no you didn't. That was beautiful, Harry."

To his chagrin, Ron felt his eyes sting to hear the declaration of trust. Did he deserve such unquestioning faith? What if he got Imperiused one day or something? Possessed with an urge to warn Harry, he blurted, "I'd never—if You-Know-Who ever did get to me – try to get me to hurt you, I mean – he'd just be wasting his time, I'd die first, but I dunno, I could get Imperiused or Polyjuiced or something, and they say that in a war you shouldn't trust anyone absolutely…"

"I don't care what they say," Harry retorted. "If I can't trust you, then who can I trust? Besides Hermione, of course."

At this point, Hermione burst into floods of tears, hugging them both tightly. What with Drying Charms for the pillows and one thing and another, they were thoroughly exhausted…

…and when Madam Pomfrey came in at midnight to check on her patient, she found the three of them asleep, Ron face-down on the chess set, Hermione's hair covering his face, and Harry with a melted Cockroach Cream smeared across his glasses.

With a quick spell, she cleared the paraphernalia away, and covered the three of them with a blanket. "Good night," she said to the room at large. She turned away; looking back as she left for bed, she murmured:

"Sweet dreams."


End file.
